


All Marriages, Even Happy Ones, Are Mistakes

by Fickle_Obsessions



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, M/M, Royalty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-27 15:13:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fickle_Obsessions/pseuds/Fickle_Obsessions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Through centuries of plenty Dale and Erebor have traded food for gold, but after a drought and crop failure sour their relationships, the dwarves look elsewhere for the solution. They find the Shire, rich in food, but reluctant to trade with strangers. What better solution than an arranged marriage? Hobbits get a connection to the dwarves, the dwarves solve their trade dispute.</p><p>Bilbo Baggins just happens to be the only hobbit willing to do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Though I've read the books and seen the movies I'm no Tolkien expert, so I'm definitely going to get details and such wrong. But even though this is an AU, I'm going to try my hardest to keep this fic in the feeling of the books. The most glaring change is that Sauron, the Ring, and Smaug are not issues in the world. The dwarves keep Erebor and by and large there good roads that would allow trade from west to east.

Both the kingdom of Erebor and the city of Dale were born in peace and prosperity, and both grew by cooperation. Erebor was never poor in gold and treasures, and for centuries Dale was never poor in food to trade for it. Freely and happily did the two peoples engage in their commerce through the long, quiet years of plenty.

After some time Thror was laid to rest in a gilded hall with many honors, and his son and successor, Thrain, crowned with much splendor. Thorin, Thrain’s son, waited patiently in line for the throne, a dutiful captain of the guard in the meantime. Indeed he was more than dutiful, for soldiering was all he cared for. He showed no interest in diplomacy nor traditional metal or stone craft and least of all marriage.

The women of Dale would see Thorin riding on his stout pony, grim faced with a grey streak growing long in his hair. He was demeanor and height were impressive for a dwarf, and when riding at a distance he was nearly indistinguishable from an ordinary man. The women of Dale would ask their friends, the merchant lady dwarves, 'didn't your Prince Thorin have a wife? Didn't he want an heir?' The lady dwarves were shrewd in many ways, not the least of which was recognizing gossip for mere gossip's sake, and would only shrug their shoulders and point out again how very fine their gold silk thread was.

For decades went the cycle of rich summers and easy winters, and it seemed that nothing would ever change. The dwarves of Erebor and men of Dale were content. Content, at least, until a drought came and blighted the green hillsides. The proud evergreen trees on the side of the Lonely Mountain became dry as kindling. The river from the mouth of mountain slowed to a sluggish and muddy trickle, and the lake retreated from the shore. Farms faltered and food became far more dear to the people of Dale. 

But droughts do not affect rivers of gold, and the dwarves, never having cared to learn about farming or cultivation, either did not believe or did not care for the men of Dale's many reasons for why a bushel of grain was now twice the price, and a fatted cow came at three times the amount of gold once asked. Peace, prosperity and cooperation gave way to discord, resentment, and suspicion.

As the men of Dale levied ever greater tariffs for food, the dwarves cast their eyes across Middle Earth for other sources. What they found well to the West was the Shire, a rich land of farms and pastures made richer with every harvest. The long years of peace meant there were now good roads by which to send food purchased there and the hobbits proved amenable trade negotiators almost to the point of being gullible. They had never known anything like the wealth of Erebor and Dale and marveled even at the small chest of gold Thrain sent as an assurance of his sincerity. 

Though they were easily swayed on the matter of price they would potentially accept for their grain, produce and livestock, the hobbits still balked when it came time to accept the terms. "We are simple folk," said the council of mayors to their frustrated emissary. "We have always grown and made things only for ourselves, our own people."

"A matter easily rectified with a marriage!" said the emissary, speaking well out of turn without first consulting his king, but operating on a what proved to be a good hunch. "A marriage of our two peoples. Our Prince Thorin is as yet unmarried, and would be a fine husband for a hobbit. Once married to one of your folk, it would be as if the fruits of your labor were being granted to your own kin."

The mayors were well impressed by the offer and agreed that it should be sent for consideration by King Thrain. A raven bearing a letter was dispatched to Erebor immediately. Despite the promise of utmost secrecy word of a potential royal marriage spread across half the Shire that night and had reached the other half by midday the next day. The hobbits, having never been in the least bit politically expedient before, could scarcely contain their excitement at the prospect of one of their number being crowned a consort to a future king. 

Thrain sent back word by raven near the end of that same week. Such an arrangement, he wrote, would crack two nuts with one hammer blow. He gave the offer his heartiest blessing.

The council of mayors set about finding a suitable maiden, and though they found many willing to entertain the notion for a day, none at all were actually willing to leave the Shire and travel East to live in Erebor. As a rule, hobbits are not fond of change or adventure, and they dislike trips away from home with permanent destinations. The mayors brought this unfortunate news to the dwarves' emissary who shrugged and said, "If not a maiden, then a bachelor will suffice." 

The mayors were at first rather scandalized. Certainly there were odd folk about the Shire who paired like with like, as hobbits would say; it was not unknown, though rarely ever commented on. But a prince? How could a prince marry anyone but a maiden?

The emissary explained how quite tidily. "Dwarves have not so many women among our number, and we have many dwarf men who do not much care for marriage. We find companionship as we may. If you can find a bachelor who can abide by the idea, I can assure you that Thorin will not care in the slightest." 

Now truthfully, the Shire was not particularly more abundant in bachelors willing to leave their home behind for a life spent under a mountain and not under a hill than they were in maidens, but they did have one likely candidate. A bachelor with not very many close family members and fewer that he cared for, a bachelor who was still a young hobbit, fair to look at and not too round. A hobbit of goodly birth and well versed in letters, poetry and song. A hobbit who, when he had the future prosperity of the whole of the Shire placed upon his shoulders, sighed and agreed to marry Prince Thorin, sight unseen. 

The trade talks went quite smoothly after that, and the next spring, having in the meantime received only one tersely worded letter and a silver ring with a dark blue sapphire nearly the size of a robin's egg set into it, Bilbo Baggins formerly of Bag End, locked the large green door of his home and headed East.

His escorts were an amiable dwarf named Bofur, and two young guards, Fili and Kili. They were pleasant company but Bilbo was much distracted by the unknown things that lay before him and less prone to conversation than he was normally. Though several times he looked as though he was about to speak a question, _the_ question, really, it was just after the midpoint of their journey that Bilbo finally asked, "The prince-"

"Thorin" Kili supplied, already smiling.

"Yes," Bilbo said, though he did not repeat the name. "What sort of dwarf is he?" 

"What sort?" asked Fili, and Bofur from across the campfire could tell that he was getting ready to wind up the little hobbit. "Well he's the sort of dwarf that's our uncle, that's the sort of dwarf he is."

"That's right," Kili said, always willing to join in and take things a bit further. "Bilbo, my future liege, you're in the presence of the two dwarves that know the Prince of Erebor, may he live to be 300, better than any other living soul."

Bilbo seemed relieved and Bofur chewed on his pipe to keep his expression sober. "Does he like music? Songs?" The answer he was looking for was quite plain. Bilbo was not much of a romantic, but he did have the notion that a person who liked music had to have some gentleness in them.

"Can't abide by either," Fili said with a sigh. "I had a fine fiddle once, but one day he caught me playing it and-"

"And?" Bilbo asked, leaning forward with concern written plainly across his features.

"And now he doesn't have a fiddle any longer," Kili said, shaking his head with regret. 

Bilbo seemed quite bothered to hear that, but hope sprang anew with his next question. "Does he care much for food and drink and feasting? What does he have at his table most nights?" 

"Usually there’s not much at all upon Thorin's table, isn't that right, Fili?" Fili nodded his agreement with much vigor at his brother's assessment. "He takes one meal a day usually, eaten while standing and giving orders. He drinks no ale, no mead, and no red wine."

"I see," Bilbo said. Whatever further questions he may have had now seemed to sit like a bitter taste on his tongue and he did not bother with another. 

"Now don't let us give you the wrong impression," Kili said, feigning consolation. "Our uncle is not all bad. He hardly ever sentences dwarves to death."

"That's true," Fili chimed. "And he only rarely beats his pony with his whip." 

Bilbo made a miserable noise and Bofur rather regretted waiting so long to intervene. "It would be quite a foul fellow," he said, finally speaking up, "that was spoken of in such a way by his own kin." He blew smoke into the fire and leveled a gaze at the brothers who seemed to realize the game was up and an apology was in their future. "And it's a prince with tricksters for nephews who would have lies like that told about him." 

Bofur waited for the hobbit to look up, and smiled at the poor fellow once he did. "The prince likes music and song quite a bit. Taught Fili and Kili both how to play the fiddles they have stashed in their bags, in fact. Though, truth be told he prefers songs about himself the most, but that's to be expected of a prince, I suppose.

"And he eats as often as pleases him, which is usually four times a day." The hobbit seemed to find this enormously reassuring, so Bofur added, "And he likes ale and mead and red wine as much as any dwarf, but no more than is becoming. His pony, you'll be pleased to find out, is so well cared for by his master that he won't allow anyone but Thorin to ride him. And as for sentencing people to death, that's a rare thing among our kind, and something done only by a king. I doubt Thorin would ever have cause or reason to do so, let alone the desire." 

Bilbo thought this over and eventually nodded with some finality. "So I see." His spirits, however, did not seem to lift much.

Kili and Fili smiled sheepishly, and were quick to try and make amends. "We were only pulling your chain a bit, you understand?" They told the hobbit, speaking over one another. "Thorin is the greatest dwarf in an age, you'll see." 

Bilbo was quick to forgive them, but did not bother asking much more about his future husband as they made the rest of their journey. As the ground beneath their feet turned from good, dark earth where one could dig several feet down to hard packed, rocky soil, and then changed again to the feet of the mountain, it was clear the little hobbit had begun to feel terribly homesick. 

And if you ask Bofur, though no one technically did, Thorin could have summoned up a warmer welcome than, "So, this is the hobbit." 

Bofur knew Thorin to be a blunt man, but the hobbit was not yet well-versed in the ways of his future husband and of course immediately (but quietly) took offense at being so carelessly summed up.

Thorin waited for a response that would not come, as Bilbo's manners had been fairly eaten up by exhaustion from the road, and further consumed by the fact that Thorin's only reaction to him so far had not been to call him by his name.

As for his part Thorin truly meant no offense, but was instead merely surprised. It was not a formal meeting, but a mere chance crossing of paths as Thorin walked to the throne hall to meet with his father and Bofur guided Bilbo to his rooms. Thorin had heard that the hobbit would be small and fair, but he hadn't expected for him to be quite so small and soft looking. Bilbo Baggins of the Shire was at least a full head shorter than Thorin and perhaps just a little more, and looked as if he had never had an errant whisker in his life. He wore his hair shorter than most dwarf children did and despite his large feet, the hobbit's hands looked to be half the size of Thorin's.

It was the dwarves' custom to grasp their peers by the forearms in greeting, while beloveds might clasp opposite hands and cup a palm to the other's face briefly. Thorin and Bilbo were neither, and they stood awkwardly before each other until Bofur gently suggested that he continue taking Mr. Baggins to his room to rest.

"Of course," Thorin said with a needlessly princely nod. "Until tomorrow."

Tomorrow would be the day that the hobbits' first shipment of food, grain, cows, sows, pumpkins and gourds aplenty arrived in Erebor. The kitchens were kept hot and smoking the entire day, as there was a wedding feast to be prepared.

Bilbo stayed in his rooms the entire day, but for a brief visit to pay his respects to his future father-in-law in his throne room where he begged pardon for his fatigue.

King Thrain was quite a sober dwarf, and lacking in a certain kind of humor. He frowned deeply. "I instructed your escorts to take every precaution with regards to your comfort."

"And so they did. They were, in fact, most excellent escorts. But hobbits aren't so used to long journeys, you see. I'm sure by tomorrow I'll be much refreshed."

The next day Bilbo woke very early, bathed and dressed in as fine a linen shirt as any hobbit had ever worn, a yellow silk waistcoat embroidered with white flowers, and a green velvet jacket and breeches- yellow and green being the colors hobbits traditionally wore to their weddings. Next he carefully combed the hair on his head until it shone and did the same for the hair on his feet.

Then he stood before the enormous silver looking glass in his room for some time. Proud as he was, he’d never spent much time worrying about his appearance - one of the many perks of being an avowed and lifelong bachelor. Now he wondered if he appeared foolish to the dwarves, barefoot while they wore great boots of metal and leather; to be dressed as a country gentleman when so many of them looked half ready for battle most of the time.

It was a waste of time to worry about it, he had nerves enough about the simple act of getting married, no matter whether his betrothed cared for the way he wore his hair. 

Bilbo straightened himself up to his full, diminutive height and squared his chin at his reflection. “All right, Bilbo, old boy. It’s a funny situation you’ve found yourself in, but as your own father used to say, the only thing to do with a nut you can’t crack is plant it.” Bilbo thought briefly about the fact that he hadn’t the foggiest idea how to go about planting Thorin, but that was decidedly beside the point. He was going to make the best of it. “And besides,” he said, continuing aloud, “he's just a dwarf, not a troll. He's not bad looking or old and his beard doesn't brush his knees, so that's already better than you were thinking."

As speeches go it was surely not going to go down in books as one of the most rousing ever spoken, but it did help enough that Bilbo was able to take a deep breath and exhale without the same great pressure that had been squeezing his ribs so tightly. He nodded at his reflection, feeling a bit better. 

That is, until poorly muffled laughter suddenly exploded from the door. Bilbo whirled around to find Kili and Fili laughing with such mirth they had to rely upon both the door frame and each other to stand. 

“Brother mine, think of the day when our uncle will ask us,” Kili said, tugging at his brother’s lapels.

“‘Tell me truly, nephews, what did my husband think of me when first we met?’” Fili said, imitating his uncle’s low regal voice. 

“And we will answer truthfully, ‘Uncle, he found you slightly less fearful than a troll.’” 

Bilbo, who had first been struck silent by surprise, and then by embarrassment, sighed and murmured, “Scamps,” as the brothers again broke into laughter. “Surely there’s other trouble you could be getting yourselves into?”

Kili stood up to his full height, showing himself to be in full regalia, and Fili affected a far more casual stance, leaning his shoulder against the door. “We, Bilbo Baggins, O Venerable Hobbit of the Shire, and Betrothed to the future King Under the Mountain, are your royal escort to the Great Hall,” Kili said proudly.

Bilbo was more embarrassed than flattered by Kili’s embellishment, but Fili quickly provided further explanation. “Yes, we’re to mind you don’t fall down any shafts and to make sure you don’t decide our uncle actually is rather bad looking and make a break for it.” 

“I’m sure,” Bilbo said, “that I will do neither.” He smoothed his waistcoat down a final time, and said with a firmer voice than he would have expected, given the way that same pressure he’d felt upon waking was back to squeezing out his very breath from his chest. “Lead the way.” 

Fili and Kili escorted him as promised to Erebor’s Great Hall, and though Bilbo was never once in danger of falling down any shafts, he did find his feet grew heavier the closer he got to the towering stone and gold archway that formed the entrance to the hall. 

Stepping inside, Bilbo discovered he was to be married before what seemed to him to be every dwarf in Erebor and perhaps several of the neighboring kingdoms as well. Down a long aisle lined with stout dwarves with braided beards they walked to where King Thrain and Prince Thorin stood on a platform, the famed Heart of the Mountain, the Arkenstone, shining above them in a setting made specially for the occasion. Fili and Kili held their heads high, as if all the pomp and circumstances was for their benefit alone. Bilbo followed more meekly behind, the weight of a thousand eyes added themselves to the pressure sitting on his chest.

Before the platform, the brothers bowed low to their uncle and then stepped aside. Bilbo regretted losing their shoulders to hide behind immediately. His future husband stood before him, and but for the fact he was dressed in blue and silver, he might have been presiding over a wake. Bilbo took a final breath and climbed the three steps to join the grim prince on his platform. Thorin proffered a broad palm; Bilbo placed his fingers lightly upon it, and was led to stand in the bright convergence of three streams of sunlight, filtering down from portals cut through the ceiling and out the side of the mountain. 

King Thrain cleared his throat, and launched into a dreadfully long and frightfully boring speech. Eventually Bilbo’s arm grew rather tired and his hand settled more firmly into Thorin’s rough palm. Bilbo had always heard it that dwarves were famously blunt and not particularly fond of using a dozen words where three will do. In fact, this was the preference of all dwarves except for those who were in places of power. As it turns out dwarves were no more immune to the feeling of being terribly important than any member of any other race. Thrain seemed sure that the assembled dwarves would hang upon his every word.

It wasn’t too much longer after that Bilbo’s mind began to wander away from the matter at hand, drifting back over the long journey and back to Bag End. It would be quite nice, he thought, to be in his sitting room with a good book and a kettle steeping. Thorin took his other hand from where it hung limp at his side and in an instant Bilbo was back in Erebor’s Great Hall, looking up at the dwarf who was repeating the vows his father prompted in a deep, clear voice. To everyone watching it might well have appeared that Thorin was looking Bilbo in the eye, but from the hobbit’s perspective he could confidently say Thorin’s blue eyes were focused no higher than Bilbo’s chin. 

When it came time for Bilbo to recite the same words, he was no braver, and spoke the words to their clasped hands. 

Once finished with their vows, King Thrain made a gesture and two dwarves stepped up to the platform bearing crowns upon pillows. Thorin let go of Bilbo’s hands and turned to take up a braided gold crown and place with some care onto Bilbo’s head where it nestled into his curls in such a way that made the fine work metalwork appear to be some happy accident. 

Bilbo turned to take up a silver crown, heavier and more impressive than his own and raised it up to place it upon Thorin’s head. There he found that the combination of their difference in height and the stiffness of a new jacket meant that he could only raise the crown to about the level of Thorin’s brow. 

There was soft titter that went through the large audience, and Bilbo glanced for the first time at the filled hall. Huffing as his cheeks grew warm, Bilbo went up on his toes (and Thorin bowed his head ever so slightly) to place the crown upon him.

Bilbo settled back on his heels and was, for a moment, glad that it would all soon be over. The relief evaporated as his chin was carefully tilted up and he found Thorin looming before him. A kiss - brief, chaste, but somehow not entirely courtly - was pressed against Bilbo’s lips. For a moment only, Bilbo was once again offended, feeling a bit like he was being treated like an item that Thorin did not want to handle, but that thought was quickly replaced by the realization that he was well and truly wed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: Because of reasons I went ahead and went whole hog with the wedding night rather than having Thorin say something like "I don't expect anything from you." Where's the fun in waiting? They're both consenting, but it is also a bit strange for them.

There followed such a feast as the hobbit had never known. Before it Bilbo would have surely thought himself well-versed in feasting (food being the primary passion of his race, after all) but tales of Primella Proudfoot’s insistence that her wedding have every conceivable cake possible paled in comparison to a gross of sows roasting over spits, a table of hearty cakes and squash pies the length of a cricket field, and casks of reserve vintage spirits that cut in half and filled with water could each have served as a tub for six hobbits or more. Music was thankfully as abundant as the food - the air was never still, rattled by drums, stirred by deep voices singing in chorus, sweetened with the sound of fiddles and viols. Bilbo was grateful for both, because a full mouth and the pretense of enjoying a song gave him good reason to put off trying to strike up a conversation with his new husband a bit longer. 

After many of the dwarves had eaten their fill Thorin’s attention was fully occupied by the stream of dwarves of varying importance coming up to give him their blessing and well-wishes. Bofur stopped to speak to Bilbo after giving Thorin his congratulations. He clasped Bilbo’s forearm and smiled with such easy goodwill that it helped to make the feast feel a bit more like true celebration. 

Bofur then left with a wave and Bilbo turned to find himself the subject of Thorin’s stern-seeming attention. 

“You chose your escorts most excellently,” Bilbo prudently said. “I should thank you. I can’t properly say how much I appreciate already having made friends.”

Though his face changed little, Thorin’s regard seemed to soften a bit. Squaring his shoulders, he looked out again over the crowd, “I’m pleased to hear you may call more than one dwarf friend.”

It did not need to be said aloud that Bilbo may call only one dwarf “husband.”

The night passed on and the torches and pyres burned low. For perhaps the first time in his life, Bilbo had not had much appetite and when he stood to bid the table goodnight he found the wine had much gone to his head. At Thorin’s beckoning, Fili and Kili appeared and then helped him to navigate the dark paths suspended over deep mines. Bilbo followed amiably and answered their begging questions of did he find the ceremony and feast very fine with ready agreement. It was not until the brothers opened the door for him that Bilbo realized that he had been taken not to the room he had previously called his own, but to Thorin’s.

Kili gave a low, cheeky bow, sweeping both arms over as he presented Thorin’s chambers to Bilbo. Fili cuffed the back of his brother’s head fondly, and in the ensuing tussle they gave Bilbo a chance to hesitate without being watched. It was a short hesitation, knowing he had no other option, and he stepped around the wrestling dwarves and inside the room. Fili and Kili, realizing that Bilbo was waiting with his hand upon the door handle, briefly gave up their mischief to say a respectful goodnight.

Bilbo changed into the night shirt and robe that were clearly, at least judging by the length of the hems, meant for him. For what was probably less time than he guessed he sat beside the hearth and tried not to feel nervous, and for more time than he would care to admit he poked carefully around Thorin’s things. He studied each item, be it a box, a quill, or ring as if it would give him some insight to the prince, but of course such things are hardly great revealers of character. In the end he only discovered only that Thorin had a great many boxes (some of which could not be opened without a clever trick), a few rings, a quill with a golden nub, several rolls of untouched parchment, and other things of that nature.

The heady feeling from the wine faded, leaving Bilbo’s limbs feeling heavy and though he had determinedly avoided the bed during his exploration of Thorin’s room, he could not deny that the thick mattress and many blankets and furs seemed a far more appealing a place to rest than a chair not quite his size. He meant only to rest for a little while but quite quickly fell asleep.

This was how Thorin found Bilbo when he came into the room not too much later, slumbering soundly with the shoulders of his robe fallen open and his cheek pressed into the pillow. He paused at the door for a moment and for the first time looked his fill without feeling that it was impolite to stare. Satisfied, Thorin then closed the door, and the heavy latch clicking shut was enough to wake the hobbit.

“Oh,” he said, not quite awake. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to-” As he spoke Bilbo’s eyes blinked open and struggled to focus. When he recognized Thorin he did not continue but cleared his throat a bit uncomfortably.

“I did not mean to keep you waiting quite so long,” Thorin said, moving toward his dressing table. He shucked off the first of his layers and undid his belt, and as he did the hobbit pulled the collar of his robe more tightly closed. “There were many dwarves who wished to pay their respects.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” The hobbit stammered on just those three words as Thorin bent down to pull off his boots.

“Are you experienced?” Thorin asked bluntly as he paired his boots and set them aside. He was met with only silence. Thorin looked over to his new husband and found Bilbo’s mouth hanging open.

He waited.

“I’m not sure I know how to answer that,” Bilbo finally replied. “Both for the sake of being polite and the desire to be truthful. If it’s a concern of yours, by all means feel free to make your own confessions first.”

Thorin found the protest amusing and hid a small smile by looking down at his greaves as he unbuckled them. “We can leave that question unanswered if you tell me honestly that if you find anything tonight...” Thorin was unused to saying things delicately and had to search for the right words, “not to your liking, you’ll say so.” 

He placed the greaves upon his dressing table and stood. Still sitting upon the bed, Bilbo’s breath blew silently past his open lips. He nodded once, a quick jerk of his chin, and began to relax how tightly he clutched at his robe. Thorin did not let himself to stop and think of nerves, but pulled his shirt free from his trousers and slipped it off. 

The hobbit’s fingers faltered a little as he undid the knot on his robe. Thorin waited until it was shrugged off and set aside before he placed a knee upon the bed, and reached out to take Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo’s skin was warm under the thin linen nightshirt and he leaned forward at the weight of Thorin’s hand. Thorin let him stray close, looking down at the smooth face, small nose, and wide blue eyes, before exerting further pressure and turning Bilbo slowly around. The hobbit obliged him, albeit reluctantly, and when he had turned entirely, kneeling upon the bed with his back to him, Thorin climbed fully onto the bed and slipped his arm lightly around Bilbo’s waist. 

Slowly he fisted one hand, then the other in the linen and began to pull it up. Bilbo’s breath hitched softly, but he didn’t gesture or say a word to stop Thorin and lifted his arms obediently when the shirt gathered at his shoulders. Thorin did not realize he’d been holding his breath until they both exhaled as one when the shirt was off. 

The hobbit’s skin was pale enough that the firelight reflected gold and orange upon it while Thorin’s darker hand upon Bilbo’s soft, bare stomach was instead colored red by the fire. As he might have suspected from the Bilbo’s lack of beard, he was quite smooth, no more than a sparse patch of hair on his chest, a thicker thatch between his legs, and just a light dusting of hair upon his forearms and thighs. He had not been quite sure, given the hobbit’s stature, if it would be possible to stir desire, but apparently he needn’t have worried. Thorin did not mind it. As he smoothed his palm over Bilbo's skin experimentally he found it appealingly soft. 

He felt he should say something complimentary, but too much feared accidentally misspeaking. Instead he turned his face gently into the hobbit’s hair and inhaled. Despite the long journey from the Shire and two nights spent under the mountain, Bilbo’s hair still smelled of green earth and rain. His exhaled breath against Bilbo’s neck sent a shiver running down the hobbit’s spine, and Thorin could just feel the goosebumps raising on the shoulder pressed against him. He pulled away just slightly to smooth them down and glanced, eyes tracing the shorter, more slender curve of his back to a pleasingly rounded backside. 

Thorin placed his palm just above the swell and felt a warm flush of desire spark to life, low in his belly. He left the hobbit briefly to reach across a bedside table where a small box had been placed. He pressed a jewel set into its lid and it opened, revealing three small vials of blue glass. Thorin took out one and set the box aside. Turning back to the hobbit, he found that Bilbo had turned his head toward him but kept his eyes downcast. 

“Is it some custom I’m not aware of,” he asked, apparently taking great care to be polite, “that I should be displayed while you remain hidden?” 

The warm feeling in Thorin’s belly was hooked and sharply jerked away by a small barb of guilt. “I only thought it would be easier.” He’d assumed allowing the hobbit to have his face turned away would give him a last shred of modesty.

Bilbo’s chin lifted and he met Thorin’s gaze evenly. “Begging your pardon but doing so only makes you feel like more of a stranger.”

Thorin was never fond of admitting a mistake, but recognized his only option was to say, “Forgive my misplaced intentions.”

Bilbo accepted his apology with a nod, shifting so the he was reclined, supported by the heel of his hand against the mattress, and faced Thorin fully. Here it became clear his complaint had been based mostly upon pride for he ducked his head first as if to hide a blush before raising his eyes again to look at Thorin.

Thorin placed the vial upon the blankets, sat with his legs over the side of the bed and slipped off his trousers. The prince could only guess what the hobbit saw, perhaps a form too stocky or hairy for his tastes, perhaps a span of shoulders and large hands he found intimidating. His eyes did linger upon the deep scar left by the Great Goblin, the foe Thorin had helped his kin defeat in the Misty Mountains, but it would not to be curious about the jagged a white line cut into his side. 

Thorin took up the vial again and the hobbit’s eyes left Thorin’s scar to track the movement of his hand. Coming close, he pressed into Bilbo’s space until he was nearly fully laid against the bed, resting back upon his elbows, mouth opening again, but saying nothing. Thorin did not press so far that their legs did any more than brush each other’s, one of the dwarf’s knees planted beside Bilbo’s hip, and his free hand sinking into the soft mattress beside Bilbo’s head.

He searched the hobbit’s expression for fear or protest, and as he did Thorin’s long hair fell over his shoulders, bracketing Bilbo’s face and brushing over his cheek. Before Thorin could move Bilbo reached up first and carefully swept it one side. His fingers gently threaded through it and, meeting Thorin’s eyes, he combed them slowly down through the dark braids and locks until they slipped free. The gesture was unexpected and sent a ripple through Thorin’s carefully constructed sense of calm; a pebble thrown into still waters. He had not prepared himself for unasked for tenderness, and it took some time for him to recover and remind himself that tonight must first and foremost be about their honor-bound duty as husbands.

Thorin sat back and uncorked the vial. He wet two fingers with the oil and set it down so that it would be close at hand. He grasped the hobbit’s hips and guided them so that they tilted up. Bilbo’s legs were spread, but as Thorin shifted over him, they reflexively closed. Thorin hooked Bilbo’s knee with his thumb and forefinger and firmly pushed it higher up on the bed. The hobbit gasped at being so handled, and Thorin soothed him by running his hand over his thigh. Here as well the skin was soft, curving nicely into his palm, and as he stroked it the muscle under his palm began to relax further and further against the bed. 

Thorin’s hand slipped slowly down, and Bilbo took a deep, calming breath and shut his eyes. 

“Remember your promise,” Thorin said, lightly circling his fingers so that Bilbo could become used to them and stop involuntarily shying away. 

Bilbo nodded and it seemed blessing enough, so Thorin pressed the blunt tip of his finger slowly in. At the breach, the hobbit did not say a word, or even make a noise, but he did fist the sheets tightly in his hands. Thorin opened his mouth to insist again that he did not want unhappy silence, but Bilbo’s breathing evened out and by degrees he relaxed further against the bed. Thorin waited a moment longer, but Bilbo did not open his eyes or bid him continue, and he focused again on the slow and steady work of readying him. 

It was not until the third of Thorin’s blunt fingers was stretching him that Bilbo finally made a noise. A soft, startled “oh” escaped his lips and Thorin paused, glancing up from where he had been watching perhaps too intensely the sight of his slicked fingers disappearing. The hobbit had turned his face to the mattress and was softly panting. 

“Is it too much?” Thorin asked. 

Bilbo was shaking his head before his eyes even opened, “No, it’s...” How badly Thorin wanted Bilbo pronounce it anything. It needn’t have been glowing approval, “fine” or “all right” would have been just as gratefully received as “good.” 

But Bilbo did not finish his sentence, only shifted his hips minutely despite Thorin’s fingers buried within him. “Only perhaps a little slower, and-” The hobbit cut himself off suddenly, and huffed in embarrassment. “A little slower,” he repeated.

“Say it,” Thorin said. “If you have a desire, speak it.” 

Bilbo hid part of his face behind his hand, and it was all Thorin could do not to pull it away and hold it down and force Bilbo to speak. “Nothing,” the hobbit insisted, and Thorin did just that; took the small, fine wrist in his grip and pushed it back down to the bed. 

Bilbo stared up at him, startled. He met Thorin’s determined gaze and took a deep breath. “Deeper,” he said, lowering his eyes again, embarrassed. “It does not bother me when you press deeper. Quite the opposite.”

Despite the flush spreading down well past his collarbone, Bilbo said this in nearly the same way he might request his eggs be cooked for breakfast. But Thorin did not care in what tone the request was made, only that it was made. Keeping his eyes on Bilbo’s face, Thorin slid his fingers out until the bare tips of his fingers were pressed against the hobbit’s body and then pushed in again, pushed until he was buried to the knuckle and Bilbo first bit his lip, and then when Thorin stretched and pressed with his fingers even a bit further threw his head back, throat flashing as it curved. 

Minding the request that it be both deep and slow, Thorin withdrew and gradually pushed in again with a hard fought patience, then again and again. With each push the hobbit’s need grew until the shaft lay, red and heavy, on his soft stomach. Thorin’s own need was spurred at the sight of it, the soft noises, faint whispers of sighs and moans made under Bilbo’s breath, the hot sheen of sweat broken across both their brows. 

He removed his fingers and took Bilbo’s hips in both hands, turning him over again. Bilbo shifted to hands and knees slowly, and Thorin begged his pardon. “I know it’s not your preference, but it’s easiest this way.”

“It’s fine,” Bilbo said, sitting back on his heels as Thorin uncapped the vial a final time and slicked his shaft with two quick pulls. 

Thorin leaned over the hobbit, covering his smaller body and easing him forward. Holding Bilbo’s waist, Thorin pulled their hips in line, took himself in hand and pushed slowly in. By steady, careful inches, listening carefully for any hitch in Bilbo’s breathing and pausing when he heard it, he seated himself fully. Thorin waited as long as was able, but whether Bilbo meant to give him a sign to continue or not, he would never know - he gave a shallow thrust before one could be given. 

Bilbo made a high, startled sound but did not bid Thorin to stop. Twice more he thrust, a little harder each time and still Bilbo said nothing, and that was the last thought Thorin gave to holding back. 

Leaning down, he pressed against the hobbit’s back, hands coming to rest just beside but not upon Bilbo’s. Thorin’s hair fell over his shoulders in time with his rhythm, first a few locks slipping down, then a few more, then another hard thrust and it had all fallen like a curtain around them. Dwarves are best pleased by gold, their crafts, and the sense of possession. The sight of the hobbit, formally named to all as his husband, doubly covered by both Thorin’s body and hair alike made him feel for the first time that Bilbo was well and truly his. It pleased Thorin immensely and he jostled the hobbit the harder for it until each slap of their hips together had a corresponding sound coming from Bilbo’s lips. 

When these noises took on a desperate tone Thorin moved one hand from the bed and wrapped it around the heavy need bobbing unattended to between Bilbo’s legs. He had to lean more heavily upon Bilbo, his balance upset by the need to drive ever harder and the lighter touch he had to keep on the hobbit’s shaft as he stroked. Bilbo locked his elbows and bore the extra weight admirably, though he was trembling by the time he started keening in the back of his throat. 

Under his breath Bilbo began to mutter what must have passed as curses in the Shire, the tame oaths making Thorin both chuckle softly and feel a shiver of pleasure. He did all he could to spur still more curses, more keening, for he liked knowing that he had taken the hobbit from staunch politeness to near senselessness. It nearly brought Thorin too close to his own finish, his patience well frayed, quite suddenly all of Bilbo’s impatient sounds echoed too closely his own desire. Thorin made his grip on the hobbit’s need more insistent until, as a bowstring, he went suddenly taut and then released, streaking both Thorin's fist and his own stomach.

Thorin guided the hobbit down, his limbs gone limp from the exertion, until his cheek was pressed against the mattress and his backside titled up to meet Thorin’s thrusts perfectly. Thorin found his own finish quickly, forehead pressed to Bilbo’s shoulder, mouth open and pressed to skin but not quite a kiss. His teeth clenched as he spilled, just barely grazing the shoulder blade before he turned his face carefully away. But though he had stopped himself from marking the hobbit, he could not hold back a deep, loud grunt of satisfaction.

His senses were slow in returning to him, and leaning upon his elbow he stared dumbly at the curve of Bilbo’s back beneath him. Thorin’s hand lifted of its own volition and settled on his waist, fingers curling over the hipbone just under the soft roundness of flesh. After a moment, Bilbo’s lashes lifted slowly and he turned to look back at Thorin. The prince gripped a bit harder and slowly separated their hips and they didn’t either of them pretend that the warm, wet slide didn’t send a final shudder through them.

Thorin moved away and watched from the corner of his eye as the hobbit gingerly sat up and flipped over. He made an unhappy noise at the press of his backside to the mattress, gave up on sitting and lay upon his side instead.

Thorin busied himself with tugging the blankets back in place, but did ask, “Are you-”

He glanced back at Bilbo, who had tucked his arm up under his head with a tired sigh. His eyes blinked open slowly and he seemed only then to realize Thorin was asking him something.

“Pardon?”

“Are you all right?” Thorin asked directly. He threw the blankets over both of them and lay down on his back so that he would not have to choose to face either away or toward his new husband.

“Oh,” Bilbo said. He curled a bit more tightly in on himself, hiding most of his face from Thorin’s view, but shook his head. “It was,” he started to say, but again he did not say precisely what it was.

This time Thorin thought he understood. “It was,” he agreed, then said goodnight.

He had already closed his eyes by the time Bilbo said it back.

 

Thorin was not known for being a late riser, but he was comfortably sleeping in his own bed, a bed which had been his for many years and was only made warmer and more comfortable by the presence of another person in it. The next morning Bilbo woke well before him and, quite forgetting where he was, looked in vain for a window to get some idea of the time.

His gaze fell instead to the dwarf who was now his prince and husband. Thorin slept soundly and soundlessly, Bilbo was pleased to learn. He had been far too exhausted to notice or care about an errant snore but this would make other, less strenuous nights much easier. Bilbo eased out from the bed and moved about the room in that silent way that only hobbits and elves and the most cunning woodland creatures can.

He took a quick bath in water drawn from hot springs the dwarves had discovered in a chasm hidden away in another part of the mountain. His first night in Erebor, Bofur had explained to him that a series of pipes brought it to several communal baths for all dwarves to use and to private baths adjacent to their rooms for the royal family as well (something Bilbo was most thankful for this particular morning). The water was a fair bit hotter than Bilbo was used to and smelt strongly of minerals, but it went a long way to easing the faint twinge that had lingered through the night in the lower part of his back.

As had always been his custom he took his time in dressing and combing his hair, but still Thorin was not awake. Before pulling open the door, Bilbo looked at the crown and ring he had taken off the night before and set upon the little bedside table. He wondered if he should grab either, but on the bed Thorin rolled over and Bilbo experienced a rather irrational moment of panic, and slipped out of the room.

Though it was his intention to find some kind of breakfast, it was Bilbo’s first venture through the tunnels and paths of Erebor without an escort and he got a bit lost. Eventually he noticed something shining up high, impossibly bright next the torches and lanterns. Bilbo followed the paths leading to it, curious, and as he came closer realized that the piercingly bright light was, in fact, a relatively weak morning sunrise.

Blinking as his eyes watered, he stepped out onto the parapet above Erebor’s great gate and reminded himself of the green outdoor smells of morning dew, trees and grass. He strolled a bit awkwardly past the guards, though they did an uncanny job of pretending to be nothing more than stone statues while they stood sentry. By the time he’d come to the end of the parapet, Bilbo’s eyes were once again adjusted to the sunlight and when he turned to look inside Erebor’s great halls, they seemed quite dark and a bit unfriendly. He saw a shape moving in the dark, squinted at it nervously, and found it to be Thorin moving steadily toward him.

Bilbo looked out over the horizon again until Thorin came to stand beside him. The prince did not spare a glance to the world outside of his Lonely Mountain, but looked down at Bilbo with an unhappy expression.

Bilbo cleared his throat awkwardly and said, “Good morning.” 

“An earlier morning for some than others,” Thorin said, glancing at the sentries lined up beside them.

“Yes, well,” Bilbo said, “I thought that. Well I thought ‘far be it from me to steal away the joy of rising at the hour of one’s own choosing.’" He smiled hopefully, but Thorin did not oblige him with one in return. "It’s fine," Bilbo continued, "I went on a constitutional. Which I usually take after breakfast, but it’s just as good before.”

Bilbo knew his cheeks were currently pink for no good reason at all. What they had done, they had done as husbands, as they should. That they now found themselves in broad daylight when Bilbo could still remember the rumble of Thorin’s deep voice as they pressed chest to back was only to be expected. Still it was doing him no good to keep recalling the circumstances of this morning, and Bilbo cast about for something entirely unrelated to mornings, sleeping, or beds. 

“I should compliment your guard, they’re very, um-” Bilbo frowned as he looked for a reasonable adjective. “Dedicated.” 

Thorin spared them a brief glance, before returning his gaze to Bilbo, “So they usually are when in the presence of kin to the king, even one without his crown.” 

“Oh,” Bilbo said, embarrassed. He thought of the many dwarves he had passed and awkwardly greeted while he wandered. “I didn’t think I needed to wear it unless it was a, well, unless there was a ceremony or something.”

"You have that quite right, but there are other tokens that are somewhat more expected.” Here Thorin pulled something from his pocket, “I will not ask much of you, but I do prefer you wear this when outside our chambers."

He took Bilbo’s hand in his and slid firmly onto Bilbo’s finger the ring he had sent with his one page letter of introduction and proposal. It was cast from silver, heavier and broader than rings most hobbits wear, but it fit perfectly. The ring bore Thorin’s crest and a sapphire so big it had made Lobelia Sackville-Baggins actually turn green. Bilbo had worn it every day after he’d gotten it, just in case she decided to come over to tea and sniff around Bag End’s finer furnishings. 

It hadn’t truly occurred to him before, what it meant to wear Thorin’s ring. In the Shire the other hobbits hardly needed the ring to remind them of the news, and when he’d come to Erebor, he felt his reason for being there must be quite plain. At any rate, there certainly weren’t any hobbits wandering around that weren’t consort to the prince. Yet Thorin clasped his fingers, still frowning, but appearing a bit more at ease. 

“Of course I’ll wear it,” Bilbo said, gently taking back his fingers. He looked up at the prince who met his gaze with some reserve but seemed satisfied. “Silly of me to forget this morning. I won’t do it again.”

After a moment Thorin nodded. “Thank you,” he said, and turned to leave. He took a few steps away, then paused and looked back over his shoulder. "If you were still wanting breakfast, I could-"

"Oh! Yes please," Bilbo interrupted, too eager. The corner of Thorin's lips lifted slightly and he began to walk again. "That is, if you don't mind," Bilbo clarified, jogging to catch up as they went off in search of breakfast.


	3. Chapter 3

Bilbo had dearly loved and enjoyed his garden at Bag End, and often thought of his green grass and the heritage roses now he was among the hard stone corners and grey chasms of Erebor. Still Bilbo had never considered himself much of a naturalist. In all his time spent out in the good and comfortable land of the Shire Bilbo had never kept a proper almanac nor taken much interest in how his groundskeeper, the Gaffer, coaxed his flowers to grow; he was simply happy that they did. Now Bilbo wished dearly that he’d gotten a little more practice, seeming as it did that he would have to try to learn everything about Thorin by mere observation alone. At least since conversations certainly did not seem to be his husband’s forte.

His skills as an observer seemed to be lacking, just as with the trinkets he inspected the night before, Bilbo learned very little about his husband of any use during breakfast. He did discover that Thorin took his tea without milk or sugar, his eggs poached, and that his greatest indulgence in the morning appeared to be a stack of thick toast, buttered until nearly dripping. Truthfully though, Bilbo was not much bothered by the silence, the appetite that went missing during his wedding feast had returned in time for breakfast and he sampled everything on a table laden quite high at least twice.

Bilbo was sipping the last of his second cup of tea (which he always took rather milky) when a sturdy looking captain of the guard in shining armor appeared at the end of the hall. He did not speak in greeting, but wordlessly made his presence feel urgent. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” Thorin said, pushing his chair away from the table, “I have some matters that need my attention.”

“Of course,” Bilbo said, curious about what those matters might be but knowing it would not do to ask while someone waited. He did ask, “Do you think it might take until evening?” He had been told that they would be expected to dine with the king tonight. 

“Until evening and perhaps after,” Thorin said. “Please, make yourself at home. If you have need of anything, any dwarf you meet will be happy to help you.”

Bilbo severely doubted that, but said nothing of it as Thorin politely bowed his head. “Good luck. I hope your matters, whatever they are, prove easily deal with.” 

The look on Thorin’s face implied he was anything but hopeful for the same. As he stepped away a thought seemed to occur to him. “It’s a left,” Thorin said, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Bilbo was paying attention, “and then the second right to get back to our chambers. If you were wondering.”

Bilbo, caught wiping his mouth regretfully but feeling that it would seem gluttonous to stay after Thorin’s departure, smiled behind his napkin. A trace of it still pulled up the corners of his lips when he placed the napkin down upon his plate, “Thank you, I’ll bear that in mind.”

As he followed Thorin’s directions back to their rooms, it struck Bilbo that he had no idea what to do with his time. At home he had been a gentlehobbit of leisurely means, but in Shire terms this of course meant frequently going to market, entertaining guests, going after relatives to return his borrowed books, and occasionally getting into and then resolving disputes with his neighbors. While living at Bag End he had maintained a general sort of schedule of meals, errands, and habits, and kept an engagement book with at least one thing marked down for each day. By and large that previous schedule was now meaningless and in his engagement book, left still packed inside his luggage, each day after the entry, “Leave for Erebor,” was blank save for one, his wedding date.

Though hobbits were not much inclined toward strenuous work they were not often idle and Bilbo decided he would need a project to pass the time. By the time he returned to their rooms he had come up with what he believed to be just the right one to start today. Bilbo ducked inside to grab his pipe, smoking satchel with matches and good Shire leaf, and a scrap of paper and pencil. A few moments later he shut and locked their door and set out to learn his away around his new home.

There was, Bilbo conceded after about an hour of meandering, a certain kind of beauty to Erebor, in the pleasing contrast of dark stone against glittering gold, the long strings of lanterns like fabled fairy lights. In some places the lanterns even hung in such multitude as to appear as stars in a night sky. That grand scale was part of Erebor’s beauty, that in its enormity Bilbo almost believed he was looking at a far off horizon and could nearly forget that he was deep within a mountain. Now and again Bilbo’s path took him through a tunnel small enough that only two dwarves (or perhaps three hobbits) could walk abreast only to have that tunnel suddenly open up into a chasm that stretched down into depths Bilbo couldn’t possibly see the bottom of and that reached up to heights tall enough it took the hobbit’s breath away. 

Of course the enormity of Erebor was also exactly what made it so frustratingly difficult for Bilbo to navigate it with any confidence. Though he took diligent notes with his pencil and paper, the number of paths to mark appeared endless. His sketched out maps, too, proved to be somewhat unhelpful as he had never before tried to make one with more than one level. How on earth, he wondered, could one show a walkway beneath another walkway, or that one part of the fork in a path went upwards and another further down below? 

By the time Bilbo felt he had explored enough of his husband’s kingdom and that he would very much like a well-deserved cup of tea and a slice of whatever pie might be left over from the wedding feast, he only barely trusted he would be able to find his way back. Just as he feared, he took what must have been a few wrong turns and found himself wandering into unfamiliar places. 

This wandering took Bilbo by a grand room, well lit by lanterns but notably empty of dwarves at work or play. Intrigued, Bilbo turned away from the path he only half suspected would get him any closer to his desired destination. As he got closer he soon realized that the great room was actually a library, and as a grand a library as he had ever seen or even heard of at that, with stone bookcases cut into the walls, reaching up to the ceiling, and a veritable forest of ladders to reach their top shelves. Standing at the edge of the entrance, Bilbo looked both to the right and left and saw nobody standing watch or acting as a guard. It stood to reason, or so Bilbo thought, that if there were some rule forbidding him or anyone else to enter and take a look around there would have been someone there to keep an eye on things.

“And after all,” he said to himself in order to steel his resolve, “am I or am I not husband to the prince of this realm?” 

Still he stepped into the room lightly, feet making no sound at all upon the polished stone floor as he crossed the the room to read the spines of the nearest volumes. A great many of the gilt letters were in a language he could not read, but here and there were tomes titled in the Common Tongue and a few in Elvish, although Bilbo had to pause for a long time to puzzle out the florid letters and strain to remember his rather limited vocabulary. 

The subjects of most of these books seemed to Bilbo very dry and uninteresting: _The Long History of the Blue Mountains_ in thirteen volumes; _A Full Listing of Craftsmasters Awarded the Stone Hammer_ ; _Rare Gemstones and their Properties_. Bilbo browsed for quite a while before he came to something that genuinely caught his eye, a thick spine clad in old leather once dyed blue and fading to grey that read, _The Venerable and Essential History of the Line of Durin._

Bilbo immediately reached up to take it, but it was a very hefty book and on a shelf slightly higher than he felt entirely comfortable attempting to reach without a footstool. He frowned and looked for something useful to help him reach it, but the nearest ladder was a good way off and he doubted anyway that he’d be strong enough to move it. Standing up on his toes, Bilbo gave a firm tug on the spine and was dismayed when it only moved a scant inch. 

“Come on now,” he grunted as he pulled again. 

The book had come only a third of the way free when someone suddenly called out, “Who are you and why are you trying to steal our books?”

Bilbo whirled around to find himself lined up in the sights of a slingshot held by a young dwarf with a bowlcut. Startled, he put his hands up in surrender. 

“Beg your pardon,” he said, “I’m not stealing anything. This is a library isn’t it? Don’t people often borrow books?” 

The young dwarf’s eyebrows raised in confusion, and then lowered again, even more determined. “Who are you? You _must_ be a stranger.” 

Bilbo harrumphed rather unhappily at being called a stranger, and wondered what it was that made dwarves so very good at saying the wrong thing. “I’m not a stranger, I’m a hobbit,” he said testily and brought his hands down to straighten his jacket lapels. “Bilbo Baggins, formerly of the Shire, currently of Erebor.” 

“Hobbit?” the young dwarf repeated, lowering his slingshot only an inch. He looked Bilbo up and down, still suspicious until his eyes fell upon the ring on Bilbo’s finger. “Hobbit! You’re the-” Presently, he whipped the slingshot behind his back and bowed lowly. “Terribly sorry, sir.”

Bilbo stood a bit taller and tried his best to look magnanimous, “It’s quite all right, erm-”

“Ori, sir. Ori, son of Uri.”

“And you’re the librarian of this fine collection?” Bilbo asked but Ori only shrugged shyly in answer. “You seem a bit young to be a librarian, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Well, I’m not the only one,” Ori admitted. “My kin, Dori, actually does most of it, but when he’s busy he asks me to look after the books. Usually no one comes in and there isn’t much to do.”

“Lucky day today is then,” Bilbo said, looking back up at the bookcase. “Someone has come in and someone does want a book. Now would you be a good lad and help me to get it?”

Ori hesitated, “I’m not supposed to let outsiders touch our books.”

Bilbo frowned and tutted in offense once again as he turned look back at Ori. “When I said my name you acted as though you’d heard it before.” 

Ori shifted from side to side and did not look Bilbo directly in the eye, “Any dwarf in Erebor would know the name of our Prince Thorin’s husband.”

Bilbo could not help but feel it strange to have someone say this to him, but he pushed the feeling aside to settle his case for the book. “And as Prince Thorin’s husband, you would say that I should still be considered an outsider?”

“No, sir,” Ori said slowly.

“Very well then,” Bilbo said smartly, point made. He turned away again and reached up to grab the book, “Now about your assistance…”

“I’m still not sure if I-” 

“Ori,” Bilbo barked. He had never had terribly long streak of patience, let alone when he was hungry. “I am borrowing this book and I will treat it with the utmost care. You can either help me to get it, or shoot at me with your slingshot while I try to work it free. Which tale would you rather I mention to your Prince Thorin?” 

Ori gave that question only a moment’s thought before he reached up to grasp the spine of book alongside Bilbo. Bilbo smiled in triumph and together they managed to free the book from the overpacked shelf. 

“Now,” he said hugging it to his chest lest Ori change his mind, “there’s a good lad. Thank you.”

Ori smiled at him bashfully. 

“Are there any other books on Thorin’s family,” Bilbo asked. After he was finished with this book, perhaps he’d read another.

Ori shook his head, “None in a language that you could read, I’m afraid.” 

“What do you mean by that?” Bilbo asked. He glanced at the books beside him labelled in runes he had never seen before. “I may not know it now, but couldn’t I learn?” 

“Our language, begging your pardon, it’s not for, well,” Ori spread his hands in apology. 

“Not for outsiders?” Bilbo guessed, and Ori nodded sheepishly. “Well,” he said, thinking that perhaps he’d found his next project. “We shall see. Thank you again, Ori, for your help.”

Actually, once committed to allowing Bilbo to borrow the book Ori proved quite helpful indeed. He led Bilbo back to his rooms to stow the book safely behind a locked door before also “helping” Bilbo to find the kitchen again where Bilbo had no choice but to invite the lad to help himself to a cup of tea and a slice of a lovely pumpkin pie they find in the pantry. Naturally Ori accepted his invitation immediately, and Bilbo enjoyed his afternoon tea being thoroughly quizzed about everything about both himself and the Shire. 

Finally, he bade Ori good afternoon, and the young dwarf gave him another low bow. 

“You can come by the library any time you like,” he told Bilbo hopefully. 

Bilbo smiled. “I’m sure you’ll see me often. Now go,” he said, shooing him, “who knows what scoundrels could have been browsing your bookshelves in all this time.” 

Ori was quite stricken by the thought and ran off without another word. 

Bilbo then made a hesitant request for lunch to be delivered to his rooms, not at all used to simply expecting to be waited upon. To his relief the request was met with good nature and a lovely tray of warm sandwiches and bowl of potato soup arrived at the door promptly at one in the afternoon. So engrossed was Bilbo in the tales of Thorin’s family that he almost regretted having to abandon the book to eat (he wouldn’t dare risk dropping a crumb on the pages), though not so much so that he actually skipped it. He ate his fill at a stone table in the corner of the room that appeared seldom used. 

Afterward he returned to reading, flipping pages steadily (and pausing only once to smoke a pipeful) until nearly six and then it was time to dress for dinner. When dining with the king and his family, he was sure that it would not do to wear the clothes he had been walking in all morning and then allowed to wrinkle as he read. He fully expected that Thorin would appear after he was dressed and escort him to dinner, yet it was Fili and Kili who called upon him shortly before the appointed hour.

Thorin was absent from the feasting hall as well, and Bilbo waited until all the plates were piled high and the glasses filled to ask after him. 

“Will the prince not be joining us?” 

The king, who had just been lifting his fork to his mouth, paused, looked at Bilbo, and set it down again on his plate. “Thorin has been delayed. The men of Dale have taken to riding in formation along the roads as if to patrol them.” 

Bilbo thought this did not seem to be something that needed an entire day’s attention, but said nothing. 

“I fear that they are trying to show us that, if they wanted to, they could stop travelers from coming from the west,” the king went on to explain. Bilbo didn’t need to be told that the travelers in question would likely be those bringing in food from the Shire. “And so Thorin has been scouting to learn all that we may.”

“Now,” the king said as he picked up his fork meaningfully, “Shall we eat?”

Bilbo had to wonder if it was some special burden of the King of Erebor and his immediate successor to not care very much for conversation during mealtimes, for that was the last thing King Thrain said. The king ate with great gusto but no comment, but Bilbo was thankfully saved yet another meal eaten in silence by Fili, Kili and their delightful parents, Dis and Dolur. Bilbo enjoyed their company immensely, and no small part of that was thanks to just how many of what Dis’s stories about her mischievous sons caused the two lads tremendous embarrassment.

“You must forgive me,” Dis said to Bilbo after her sons were all but hiding their pink faces behind their plates, “for not coming to introduce myself to you but I was expressly forbidden from meddling for at least a day.”

“Meddling?” Bilbo asked, raising his brow as he sipped wine. “Is that something you’re often accused of doing?”

Dis had a throaty laugh and she did not often stifle it. It rang out clearly across the hall before she answered him. “Only by my elder brother. He’s been convinced it’s my chief goal since we were children.”

“I’m sure I can’t imagine Thorin as a child,” Bilbo said without thinking. 

Dis smiled, and Bilbo noticed when she did so the resemblance between herself and her sons was strongest and the resemblance between herself and her brother the weakest. “I’m sure I’d be absolutely delighted to tell you,” she said and they struck a deal to meet for tea.

Bilbo returned to an empty room, but the hearth was warm, the book still open to his page, and he was content to read a bit more.

He did not see Thorin again until the clock in their rooms had just nudged past ten. The prince strode in while Bilbo was still sitting at a desk slightly too large for him, feet neatly crossed at the ankle, absently chewing on his thumb. He had at some point taken off his dinner jacket and loosened his shirt collar a bit. As Thorin entered he glanced up and said a brief but well-meant greeting before returning to his passage. For a moment Thorin stood near the door and watched him reading. Bilbo could just feel the slight prickle of his gaze on the back of his neck. He waited for Thorin to say something, but the prince eventually turned away and sat down upon the bed to pull off his heavy boots.

Bilbo had just finished his page and was about to turn it when Thorin asked, “Is that a Shire book?” 

Bilbo lifted his head again and looked over his shoulder. Thorin still sat upon the bed, boots removed and set aside, pulling free the buckles off his vambraces. 

“Pardon?” he asked, sure he couldn’t have understood the question.

“The book you’re reading,” Thorin said, a little louder. “Did you bring it from the Shire?”

“Oh,” Bilbo said, looking down at his book again. “No, not at all. Actually it’s a book from Erebor’s great library.”

“You visited the library?” Thorin seemed genuinely surprised.

“I did,” Bilbo finally turned away from his book. It occurred to him they were having their first proper conversation and that he should appear interested.

Thorin pulled his vambrace off and then removed his glove and started on the other. Bilbo watched him distractedly for a moment, then shook his head and reminded himself to keep the conversation going. “I fancied I should learn to get around Erebor with some degree of confidence, it being my new home. I will say that dwarves might want to consider the benefits of clearly marked signs.”

“We do not often have visitors in our kingdom,” Thorin told him in a way that implied no real apology for their oversight.

“So I’ve gathered,” Bilbo remarked dryly. “But lucky for me I enjoy the odd puzzle.”

Thorin stood and placed his vambraces and gloves upon the dressing table, then shrugged off his outer coat. Bilbo worried that it was rude to watch him undress, though he’d already seen it once before, and yet surely it was just as rude to speak to someone without looking at them. “The librarian was polite enough once the shock of having someone come in wore off, but I still had to drive a hard bargain to leave with even one volume.”

“That is because he would have been strictly instructed never to give a dwarven book to an outsider,” Thorin told him as he hung his coat on its peg.

“Yes, so he said. Naturally I explained to him that I am _not_ an outsider.” He looked Thorin in the eye as if to dare him to deny it, but Thorin did not. 

“And what book did you leave with?” Thorin asked instead as he undid his belt. 

Bilbo looked away and ran his finger along the edge of the cover, then closed the book with a sigh, “Why a history of the line of Durin, naturally.” 

Thorin’s brow lifted at Bilbo’s answer, and Bilbo found himself flushing for no good reason. He cleared his throat, “It seemed a good place to start.”

Thorin did not say a word to agree or disagree with him, but looked down as he took off his inner robe and swept his hair to one side to undo the fastenings of his armoured shirt. Even once free of several layers his shoulders were still broad and the back of Bilbo’s neck was beginning to warm, reminded all over again of the night before. Bilbo glanced away.

“Though I’m told I will not have much further I can go after I finish this book, so many of them being in a language I’m not allowed to learn.” 

“ _Khuzdul_?” Thorin asked, a bit sharply. “The librarian spoke to you of _khuzdul?_ ” 

Bilbo reeled back from Thorin’s tone. “He did not tell me the language’s name,” Bilbo said, not wanting Ori to be unfairly chastised. “He only acknowledged that many of your books were in a language I did not know and might not ever learn.” 

Thorin shifted uncomfortably at the question leveled in Bilbo’s gaze. Bilbo could not deny he enjoyed the effect of the mighty prince, dressed now only in a loose linen shirt and soft trousers, at a loss. It helped to soothe the offense that he had been brought here to join their people but had to bargain even to borrow their books and ask permission to learn their language. 

“It-” Thorin began to say. “ _Khuzdul_ is not often taught to those not born to our ways.” 

“But it has been?” Bilbo asked. 

Thorin nodded, but said nothing else. Bilbo did not find the silence encouraging and sighed, turning back to his book. Though it was hardly elegant to do so, he rested his chin heavily on his hand and idly rotated the candle by which he had been reading around. He had just finished the tale of Darin and his lady love when Thorin came in. They courted for fifty years, and she rejected him three times before he finally made a gift she accepted. Bilbo wondered if there would be books one day mentioning his and Thorin’s union and what they would say. Perhaps only, “In the year 2941 Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, married a fussy hobbit from the Shire to solve a trade dispute. Fifty years later, they learned to have a pleasant conversation.” 

Bilbo was pulled from his thoughts when Thorin came to stand beside him. He looked up, and waited for Thorin to speak. 

“Do you wish to have your own rooms?” Thorin asked him. 

Bilbo blinked slowly in confusion. “My own rooms?” He looked around the large bedroom he had spent most of the day alone in and felt it a bit premature that Thorin should feel crowded by Bilbo’s presence in them.

“Thank you, no,” he said firmly. “Erebor is my home now, I know this well.” He could not stop himself from adding, “even if it seems in doubt to others,” and Thorin shifted in unease again. “But I miss the Shire very much and, if we’re to spend our days apart, I’ll need the nights at least to remind me why I am here.” 

At the mention of nights, Thorin looked at Bilbo in such a way as to make him blush. He meant only that, if sharing rooms, they would likely end up in the same place at least once a day and surely they would need at least that much to make anything out of their marriage. Whether they merely slept or shared in each other, both might help Bilbo to feel less like an unwanted visitor. 

“If we share rooms,” Thorin said, voice pitched low, “I will be more likely to take notice of you.”

And that for Bilbo was quite the last straw. “Take _notice_ of me,” he repeated, incredulous. When Thorin did not make any immediate effort to correct his offense, Bilbo pushed his chair away from the desk and started pacing. “I am sorry if you’d prefer to simply forget I exist, but I did not agree to leave the Shire and marry to just-” 

Bilbo’s outrage was interrupted quite abruptly when Thorin grabbed his shoulder. He was quickly spun about and pulled close, his words cut off by the squeeze of the strong arm that locked around his waist. 

“I do not wish to _forget_ you,” Thorin insisted gruffly. “I only-” he stopped himself, took a deep slow breath and loosened his grip, though not so much that Bilbo was freed. “I would be tempted, even if you only meant to share the room and not a bed.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said, embarrassed that he sounded breathless. He could not look Thorin in the face but ducked his head. “That’s,” he cleared his throat to sound a bit more calm. His thoughts were well jumbled, and would not be collected. 

“That’s to be expected, I should think,” Bilbo said finally, though in truth it was something Bilbo had not given much thought about, too much in the habit of thinking that dwarves only cared for gold, gems, and secrets. Their wedding night had been a matter of due course, a marriage unconsummated would be ever doubted. 

Thorin’s broad hand slid under Bilbo’s chin and lifted it, tipping Bilbo’s face so that his bright, blue gaze could travel over it, seeking some sign. 

He did have such very blue eyes, Bilbo thought. Why that should matter, he didn’t know, he’d never before expressed a preference for them. Only he hadn’t thought of Thorin having blue eyes when he’d agreed to marry him, nor such a burning gaze. Bilbo realized that his hands where they rested on Thorin’s chest were in tight, surprised fists and forced them to relax, palms pressing open against the thin material of his shirt and the solid muscle underneath. 

“We are married,” Bilbo said, as if this alone were enough to justify his flushed cheeks, the way his breathing would not slow now that they were so close to each other. 

“Yes, we are,” Thorin agreed. “And even so, is there nothing you would have me hold back?” 

It seemed to Bilbo a very strange question and he shook his head slowly, “Not unless there something you do not wish to give?”

Thorin’s answer was to take his mouth in a kiss, no reins at all to his passion. Caught off guard, Bilbo’s breath hitched and caught in his throat but only a moment later it escaped on a long, slow push out. His lips parted, and he returned the kiss in kind, feeling for the first time bold enough to loop his arms around Thorin’s neck, fingers disappearing into the dark waves of his hair.

As they kissed Bilbo felt caught in the middle of the warring Baggins and Took natures within him in a way he had not been for years. His quiet life in the Shire had quite suited his Baggins-born sensibility, even nurtured and allowed it to grow stronger. It was that same sensibility that had made Bilbo so sure that it would be politeness, and perhaps some amount of decorum, that would help him to endure this marriage until some kind of understanding could be reached. And it was this same sensibility that was shocked that he would skip over all of that, that he was not only willing to let Thorin force his neck to crane back so that their kiss would be even deeper, but would lift up onto his toes, eager. 

By that same reasoning it had to be the Took in him that did not wait for Thorin to free him from his clothes, but did so himself, and that thrilled when Thorin lifted him up easily and lay him down on the bed. Maybe it was indecent to so gamely spread his thighs, to let soft sounds of pleasure escape over and over again as Thorin worked his fingers, deep and slow as Bilbo had asked the night before. Certainly the Baggins wished that he would hide his face in mortification as he did all this, but in this they seemed the most well matched and Bilbo wanted to enjoy it. He let his Tookish inclinations run wild, keening needily when Thorin removed his fingers, wrapping his legs tight around Thorin’s middle, toes curling as Thorin thrust inside. 

He found this time he liked the burn more, the strange, full feeling, and he curved his body up to meet Thorin’s thrusts eagerly. He found, too, Thorin was not at all dismayed by Bilbo’s wantonness, as propriety might have guessed, but grasped his thighs in each hand, holding them steady as he drove relentlessly to that place within him that seemed made of sparks and fire. All the while Bilbo writhed beneath him, Thorin watched, and would not allow Bilbo to bend him down to cover him, though Bilbo tugged at his shoulders. He even wound a bit of Thorin’s hair in his fists, though he forced himself to release it when he realized he had done so. Still Thorin would not bend to kiss him again, would not release his hips and take up the desperate need bobbing against his stomach, but only looked his fill and worked them both into a sweat. 

When Bilbo could no longer bear to wait he took himself in hand and began to stroke. Thorin made a pleased sound, and watched this too, steadily increasing his pace until it became too much, too good. Bilbo spilled only a few moments later and was surprised to find his moans became a chorus, his own high and breathy sounds mixing with the low bass notes of Thorin let out as he seized Bilbo by the hips and tugged him sharply back and found his own release. Bilbo lay there, panting and watching Thorin’s features smooth out from near pained into repose, bearing up Thorin’s weight as he relaxed, and marveled not for this first time at the circumstances he found himself in.

Bilbo stretched, muscles slightly sore, and curled with some amount satisfaction and a great deal of exhaustion onto his side as Thorin moved away. He watched as Thorin tugged firmly at the blankets and then covered them both. He waited to see if Thorin would turn to him, bring him close and fold him into his arms, and when Thorin did not Bilbo surprised himself by speaking.

“Did your father ask you if you wanted to get married?”

Thorin turned his head to look at Bilbo, “What?”

“When he was told by the emissary of the offer, did your father ask you if you wanted to get married or did he simply order you to?” It had been something that had bothered Bilbo for some time. He saw no reason not to ask it when they were both spent from each other.

For a long time Thorin did not answer, and Bilbo waited, gazing drowsily at his profile. When Bilbo was near half asleep Thorin finally turned and asked, “Did your people ask you if you wanted to?” Thorin asked.

“That’s not fair,” Bilbo said sleepily. “I asked you first.”

Again Thorin paused, and Bilbo waited. “My father did not ask me,” he said at last. Then he met Bilbo’s eye, “But I did not protest.”

Bilbo nodded. It was hardly the most welcoming answer, but it was of some relief to know that their betrothal had not been railed against and forced upon him.

“And you?” Thorin asked.

“They asked me,” Bilbo said, yawning. “I’m not sure they expected me to say yes.” 

For a long time Thorin only looked at him, and Bilbo hoped that he would not ask the obvious question for he had no answer. Why had he said yes? Bilbo could not honestly say.

Thankfully Thorin spared him. “It was very brave of you to,” he said instead.

Bilbo turned his face into the pillow and felt quite the opposite of brave, being so utterly unable to look up at his own husband who he had only just- just. Well, they had only just and here he was feeling so bashful at Thorin’s first compliment. “Thank you, but really it wasn’t. It only seemed to be the right choice.”

“And does it still?” Thorin asked him.

Bilbo gave the question its due consideration before he took a deep breath, exhaled, and finally looked up at Thorin, offering him a small smile. “I think so.”

Thorin’s expression changed, softened in some way Bilbo had not yet seen. “It is good to hear you say so.” 

Bilbo himself was quite relieved to be able to say it, but now he was feeling very tired and as if there was not much more that could be said. “Goodnight,” he said.

“Goodnight,” came Thorin’s soft reply.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A note about ages:** I didn't say earlier, but if I were going strictly by Tolkien’s reckoning Thrain would be nearly 300 and incredibly long lived for a dwarf, and Thorin, just shy of 200, would be in the last quarter of his life when he and Bilbo married. Obviously I am quite taken with the younger, more dynamic Thorin of the movies so for the purposes of this story please add 50 years to each of their birth years. That way Thrain is a more plausible 247 and Thorin’s middle aged and will enjoy a good long time with Bilbo who I’d like to think will in this verse be almost as long lived as he was when a ring bearer.
> 
>  **Even more notes:** In this part I got a little dwarf research happy, so for your reference if you haven't yet looked in Tolkien dwarf-lore (10/10 would recommend) _Iglishmek_ is dwarven sign language, which I believe I read all dwarves learn to make communicating in battle/in loud smithies easier. _Shathûr_ should mean “cloud” in Khuzdul.

Thorin woke the next morning in too much anticipation of the day’s tasks. Though he would need to ride out very early to place scouts ahead of the men of Dale, a quick consult of the clockworks in the corner of the room by the dim light of the fire told him that if he tried to rouse his party now both his soldiers and their ponies would be ill-tempered. It would not only be reasonable but also prudent to sleep another hour or two more, but Thorin’s mind was already turning over how best to outmaneuver Dale’s soldiers and would not be quieted. His consideration of the problem, however, was often interrupted by the hobbit who lay sleeping beside him.

Though it was a waste of time and hardly more important than the details of how he might track and predict the movements of the men of Dale, Thorin could not stop his thoughts from turning to the color of Bilbo’s hair, walnut brown touched with bright hints of brass and bronze. He thought, too, he should like to see Bilbo’s hair grown longer, to see it braided with gold adornments and wondered if Bilbo would be agreeable to the idea. And if Bilbo was not agreeable, a part of Thorin whispered, he could simply forbid anyone to aid Bilbo in cutting it, insist that scissors be kept from him.

He dismissed the thought angrily as soon as it formed. It was an inborn tendency for dwarves to take pride in owning, to simultaneously wish to adorn that which they treasured and to fret it might someday be taken from them. Thorin himself, being a prince and hardly ever denied, was unused to the feeling, and he did not care for how it would sometimes to boil over into such unreasonable thoughts. Thorin could and would be content only to know that Bilbo bore his ring and seal upon his hand, he told himself, or else soothe his doubts with such claim as he could manage in their bed.

For another hour or so Thorin split his thoughts as evenly as he could between the planning of the day’s expedition and the pointed shape of Bilbo’s ears, how deeply he buried his face into his pillow as he slept, and the small, fine bones of his wrist, laying upturned upon the blanket. He then rose still a bit earlier than needed, bathed and dressed. While buckling his belt he must have made some sound that woke the hobbit. Bilbo made a soft noise and flipped onto his back with very little grace, still groggy with the early hour. 

He turned to look at Thorin and, seeing him dressed and tying his scabbard about his waist, sat up quickly. “What time is it?” Bilbo asked.

The energy he’d exerted to rise must have left him quickly for he then reclined back against the pillows as if overcome. “How late did I sleep?” asking a little less urgently this time as he rubbed his face with the heel of his palm.

“Hardly late at all,” Thorin assured him. He noticed that the sheets and blankets were pooled very low in Bilbo’s lap, the soft, cream colored skin of his hip exposed. Thorin turned away, such idle thoughts the hobbit did inspire. “Dawn is still a while off, you should sleep.”

“Slipping off before morning even breaks without a farewell seems a hard way to start a day,” Bilbo said as he swung a riding cloak over his shoulders.

Thorin turned back to Bilbo who was not looking at him but to a corner of the room. This morning, it seemed, was harder on his husband.

“There are matters I must attend to,” Thorin said, unaccustomed to justifying himself. He glanced to the door and when he looked back found Bilbo meeting his eye.

“And shall I ever be asked to help you with these matters?” he asked bluntly. He did not shift his gaze or give Thorin a chance to demur. “Or do you expect me to merely to send you off with a wave when you take leave from breakfast with soldiers or slip away in the morning with a sword on your belt?”

Thorin considered the question, hand coming to rest upon the hilt of the same sword that drew Bilbo’s ire as he did. “Can you ride?” he asked finally.

Bilbo blinked at him, “Ride?”

“Can you ride a pony with any confidence?” Thorin asked again. Bilbo opened his mouth but did not answer and Thorin did not wait. “Can you track or scout? Are you handy with a blade? Or bow and arrow?”

Bilbo’s eyes dropped down to his hands, and he pulled the blankets up higher to cover his soft belly. “No,” he answered finally.

Thorin sighed, it had not been his intention to embarrass the hobbit, only to make him see that he made no deliberate choice to dismiss Bilbo. Thorin took two steps toward the bed, not wanting their parting to seem sour, and said gently, “Then today I’m afraid I cannot ask for your help or counsel, but be assured I will seek it when I may.”

Bilbo nodded, understanding but not seeming much comforted. 

Thorin thought a little longer on the problem, “If you have a desire to learn then be easily found this morning after your breakfast. I can have someone sent to teach you to ride.” Bilbo looked up at him again, surprised by the offer. “Would that please you?”

Bilbo pursed his lips together doubtfully. “I never thought of learning to ride,” he admitted, more to himself than to Thorin. A moment later he lifted his chin, determined. “I accept. I can’t promise I’ll be any good at it, but if it’s a necessary step being able to aid you in your troubles I should do my best to learn.”

Thorin bowed his head to promise it would be done. “You should sleep a while longer,” he said softly. 

Bilbo didn’t disagree, “It might be optimistic to say that rest will make me a more apt pupil, but still I’ll hope.” He looked down at the blankets as he smoothed them and asked, “Shall I see you at dinner?” 

Thorin could not rightly say, having no assurances that his task would be easily accomplished. Still he said, “I hope to return in time,” knowing a hopeful answer would not be so certain to prompt a frown.

Bilbo’s smile was small, but pleased. “I’ll wish you good fortune then.” 

Thorin made a small gesture of thanks, a sign in _iglishmêk_ that Bilbo would not know but that was fairly self apparent, and took his leave.

During his reign his grandfather Thror had stables cut into the east side of the mountain. It was not customary for dwarves to bother much with the keeping of animals, but the elven king Thranduil had once boasted about his fine stable and the noble bloodline of his horses in Thror’s presence and Thror had taken this as an affront. Determined to prove that dwarves could be as capable masters of animals as any elf he had the handsome stables carved, and a herd of ponies suited to a dwarf’s height purchased and housed there. Truthfully, the great King’s keen interest in the ponies soon faded along with his offense, but not before the ponies could prove their usefulness. This and a certain amount of stubbornness meant that Thror and his heirs dutifully saw to the keeping of them. 

Inside the stables, Thorin found Dwalin, his longtime friend and perhaps his best fighter, already briskly brushing his pony’s back, readying him for the saddle. Thorin’s proud, sturdy mount, Borzol, was already saddled, shifting impatiently on his hooves, eager for the chance to stretch his legs. 

“He appears at last,” Dwalin announced to his own pony when he noticed Thorin at the door. “Princely bed too comfortable to leave this morning?” 

Thorin gave a his friend a side glance for his cheek, “And I suppose you were awoken at an early hour by the complaining of your back?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Dwalin said, clearly struggling not to groan as he lifted his saddle onto his pony’s back. “I’m as hale as a lad in his fifties and you know it.” 

Thorin smiled at the exaggeration, and ran his hand down his Borzol’s foreleg. He squeezed softly at the ankle until his pony lifted his hoof, as expected it was well cleaned and the frog free of stones. 

“Then perhaps you just need a more comfortable bed,” Thorin said as he did the same to Borzol’s other foreleg and found it just as tidy. Dwalin was not often careless, but Thorin felt the need to be thorough. 

“Maybe I do,” Dwalin said, cinching the saddle around his pony’s middle. “Or maybe just a warm and pleasant companion to make lingering seem more appealing.” 

Thorin met Dwalin’s eye for a moment before circling to look at his pony’s hind legs, one hand traveling along Borzol’s side to keep him from spooking. 

Dwalin unhooked the stirrup from the pommel and tested how snugly the saddle sat. “Why the sour face? Have you not taken to your hobbit after all?”

Thorin was tempted to say it was hardly of any Dwalin’s business, but that was merely his irrational jealousy again. To tell a close friend that indeed Bilbo was fair and pleasant would make Dwalin no more covetous, still when he spoke it was too gruffly. “I have.”

Dwalin held his hands up to remind Thorin there was no cause for upset. Thorin ducked his head to look at his Borzol’s back hoof. “He’s sharp,” Thorin said, to give his friend a better answer. “And more stubborn than I would have guessed.”

“Sharp and stubborn?” Dwalin laughed, shaking his head. “You would prefer sharp and stubborn to soft and fair. A good match then. So why not stay the morning with your sharp and stubborn husband?” Thorin looked up at his friend, Dwalin shrugged at him. “It is only scouting. If I’m not mistaken most honeymooning princes might make themselves comfortable while their soldiers gathered information and brought it back to them.” 

“And when did you become so well informed on most princes?” Thorin asked. 

“True I’ve only known one very well,” Dwalin conceded the point with spread hands, “but I consider myself something of an expert on common sense. You could trust us to manage in your absence.”

“It’s not a matter of trust, Dwalin, only responsibility.” His friend did not seem much convinced. Rather than bother arguing, Thorin changed the subject, “Have Fili and Kili been down yet to try and plead their case?” 

Dwalin tsked fondly, “No, although I expect them any minute. And unlike you, Gloin has not yet found it in his heart to wrest himself from his bed and the lovely Ruvana. Nori did poke his pointy head in a moment ago, but I sent him to the stores to fetch food.”

Thorin made an approving nose and they spoke no more. A short while later Gloin had appeared, grumbling under his breath at the hour, but not so vehemently that Thorin felt any reason to admonish him. Soon after followed Thorin’s nephews, fully kitted and armed, backs tall and straight, and for a moment they looked grown enough to give Thorin pause. 

He was grateful when they spoiled it by pouting when he greeted them with, “No.” 

“Uncle we are old enough, even mother says so,” Kili burst out. 

“Does she?” Thorin asked. “And would she still say so if I asked her at dinner tonight?” 

Kili shifted uncomfortably, “I’m sure she would.” 

“It’s no matter,” Thorin said. “I have a different task for you.” 

Their faces broke into eager smiles which grew even wider when he pulled them to a corner to speak in confidence. 

“What do you need us to do?” Fili asked while Kili impatiently pleaded, “Tell us, Uncle! We can do it.” 

“I need you two to give Bilbo amply time to rise and eat,” Thorin told them. His nephews cocked their heads, confused. “Then I would ask you to bring him here and teach him to ride.”

“Ride?” Kili asked, giving a short quick laugh as if he expected Thorin to tell him it were a joke.

“Yes,” Thorin insisted. “ _Shathûr_ has been broken by now, yes?” 

“ _Shathûr?_ ” Fili looked at his brother. “I thought Cousin Dain-”

“Is he not mine to give?” Thorin reminded his nephews, bristling. It was true Dain had expressed an interest in the fine stallion pony, but Thorin had made him no promises. “Did you not ask me what I wished you to do?” 

His nephews quieted themselves, but still they glanced at each other as if they could not believe it. 

Thorin turned away, meaning to lead Borzol out into the morning, but could not stop himself from turning back and cautioning Fili and Kili with a stern look. “Take care in this task,” they nodded. “Be helpful,” Thorin told them, although surely it did not need saying. He thought himself finished, but added without meaning to, “And make sure no harm comes to him.” 

He already knew he’d said too much but judging by Kili’s grin he’d revealed even more than he realized.

“We’ll take good care of Bilbo, Uncle. Have no fear!” Kili said, voice carrying much further than Thorin would have liked. 

Dwalin raised an eyebrow in his direction while the boys argued amongst them who was the better rider and should thus take the lead in teaching Bilbo. Thorin did the only dignified thing he could, which was to ignore them all until it was time to set out. 

For dwarves, scouting was a tricky business for they were capable but not comfortable out of their halls, and neither silence nor fleet-footedness came easily to them. Still, there is not much that dwarves cannot accomplish when they set their minds to it, and they had a bit of an upper hand since it was unlikely the men of Dale would be looking for them. 

The Old Forest Road had once been the only way through Greenwood, but thanks to the long years of peace, dwarves and men had cut a more direct path to their kingdoms, a new road that curved around only once to come to the shallowest and safest place for ferries to cross the river. The men of Dale were now patrolling this road from where it crossed the border of the Greenwood on horseback as if it were their own, armed and in number enough to turn back a band of traders if they dared. Yet they did not ride to the errand through the clearest and most easily seen paths and Thorin’s father had began to worry that perhaps they had set up a camp where more men might be hidden, waiting to effect a full blockade against the trade coming from the West. 

Thorin sent Nori and Gloin one likely direction, and he and Dwalin went searching in the other. For hours they looked, both on their ponies and on foot, for sign of regular hoofprints coming down through the woods. Thorin’s frustration grew shorter as the sun grew higher in the sky, and it became harder to mind his own foot falls, or to keep Borzol silent and still. It was a great relief to hear Nori’s thrush call echo through the trees. 

He and Dwalin turned their horse to meet Nori and Gloin at the appointed place, and discussed what they had found. There was indeed a camp, but small, and quite temporary in nature. Yet it appeared to Gloin that some trees had been cleared, as if perhaps they had plans for something larger. Thorin took this news in without much comment, but a grim enough face to tell his companions he was not pleased. 

“There’s little more we may learn today,” he said. “I will speak with my father and let him decide what is wisest. We’ll return to Erebor.” 

They did not take the greater road, but instead led their ponies through the piney woods that grew down from the foot of the Lonely Mountain and eventually mixed with the taller, older trees of Greenwood. There was a path used by hunters when the season was right for it, and during this time of year Thorin did not expect that they would come across anyone. Upon cresting a hill, however, Thorin and his company found the path ahead blocked by a group of soldiers from Dale and their horses. 

Thorin kept his hands soft on the reins and did not give his pony any reason to pause, but he glanced briefly at Dwalin whose misgivings at the presence of the Men were clear upon his face. Their ponies picked their way carefully down the path, small stones rolling beneath their hooves as they descended, and gave the two parties much time to consider each other. Yet the men of Dale, headed by a tall captain of the guard astride a black stallion, did not immediately part their steeds to let them pass by.

Thorin pulled upon the reins, so that his pony came to a slow stop and pricked his ears forward at the gathering before them. 

“Well met, Prince Thorin of Erebor,” the captain called. “What brings you and your esteemed company out of your mountain and into the piney woods this day?” Despite his polite choice of words, he spoke far too loudly, and too much for the benefit of his own men who stared openly at Thorin and his riders. 

Thorin’s hands tightened on the reins and his pony stamped his foot at the ground once, not liking the tension he felt in his rider. “I did not know it was custom to question those who travel peacefully through the land between our kingdoms.”

The captain favored Thorin with a meaningful gaze. “Nor I, highness, but perhaps you would better know whether times are changing and if it is time to become suspicious of each other on the road.”

Thorin did not doubt the captain had some idea of the purpose of their expedition but would say nothing to confirm it. “Then we shall pass freely by,” Thorin said, urging his pony forward. “As you may yourselves if you mean no harm. Good morrow.”

Still the men did not move their mounts aside, but Thorin was little more than annoyed to lead his pony through the tall horses and the tall men astride them. It would be greater fools than these that took a dwarf’s stature to mean he and his companions were easily intimidated or attacked. Thorin did not doubt that Dwalin and Gloin both were giving the men of Dale salty looks as if to dare them to give reason for the heavy axes on their backs to be pulled free, but he himself looked only at the path ahead.

He and his company were free of the men and once again upon an open path when the captain called to him again. “Congratulations are in order, are they not, highness?” 

It was poor manners indeed for the captain to continue addressing them after Thorin had declared their encounter concluded and even poorer manners to force Thorin to turn around. Still, he did he pulled his reins to the left and Borzol obediently spun about.

The captain smiled, feigning only good will, “Though no citizen of Dale was invited as envoy we have heard news that the Halflings from the West are not only Erebor’s new partner in trade, but are now kin to you and your family by marriage. Many blessings upon your recent union.”

Thorin acknowledged the well-wishes, such as they were, with the slightest nod of his head.

“I am told by one of my men who saw the wedding party arriving to Erebor that your new husband has no beard, highness.” Thorin’s hands tightened on his reins again, outraged that the captain would confess that men of Dale had spied upon Bilbo’s journey to Erebor, let alone pass any comment on him at all. The captain pretended not to notice his anger. “As far as we of Dale know, no dwarf has ever been married without at least some whiskers on the chins of both parties. I hope he did not disappoint you too greatly.”

Dwalin made an outraged noise, no longer able to contain himself. “I’ll remind you’re speaking to a prince, you-”

Thorin lifted his hand and made a sign that bade Dwalin hold his tongue.

Thorin spoke for himself, meeting the captain's eye steadily, “And why should I be disappointed with both a fair marriage and fair trade to grow Erebor's prosperity? I am told by my father your own Lord of Dale will be calling on us to lower our gates and allow more of the River Running to pass into Dale so that your people may ease your troubles from the drought.” Thorin waited long enough to see the captain’s infuriating smile disappear before adding, “I hope we do not disappoint him too greatly.”

Thorin spurred his pony to trot, leaving the men of Dale to consider their error. His companions followed, kicking up dust in their haste to follow.

They rode up to Erebor without pause and though the heat of Thorin’s anger eventually faded it was not like a flame burning out, here and then gone, but as molten metal cooling into something solid again. He could feel the shape of the newly formed grudge sitting in his stomach as Erebor’s stables and paddocks came into sight. As they came nearer, Thorin was pulled from his thoughts when he realized that there were riders in the smaller paddock. He knew from dark head of curls of one rider and the red waistcoat of the other that it was Dis and Bilbo. 

Thorin waved a hand to his fellow riders, letting them do as they may now that they were home and led Borzol to the fence of the paddock. 

Dis noticed his approach first and called to Bilbo, “A few more times round, I think. You seem to be getting the hang of this.” Bilbo looked over his shoulder at Dis, smiling at her compliment, then saw Thorin watching. His smile faded as he re-focused on his form, straightening his back a bit as he did as she asked. 

Dis steered her fine white pony to meet her brother at the fence. “Meddling already, Dis?” he asked, but his sister only laughed.

“If meddling means teaching your new husband to ride then yes, I’m meddling. Something I seem to recall getting your blessing to do if I kept away for a at least a day.”

“I asked your sons to help him this morning,” Thorin said. If Fili and Kili had begged off this chore it would be months before they could accompany him on any task, Thorin would see to that. 

“And so they did,” Dis assured him. “They followed your request to the letter and that includes putting Bilbo upon _Shathûr_ as you asked them to. Bilbo and I had tea today and he confessed to me they couldn’t get him to even consider a trot, and I don’t blame him. That pony will probably prove too much for a strong dwarf like Dain, let alone a hobbit.”

Thorin looked again to Bilbo and saw that he was not upon _Shathûr_ but one of the smaller mares they use at times to pull carts. 

He frowned, “You’re saying I should give my husband a workhorse to ride.” 

Dis’s eyebrow raised again, and again Thorin found himself with the uncomfortable feeling that someone believed they knew something more about him than he’d cared to reveal. 

“I’m sure that Bilbo deserves all manner of princely gifts, but in this case perhaps the sentiment outweighed the common sense.” She looked again to where Bilbo was making his turns round the paddock, “He’s taken very well to Myrtle. I think I even got him up to a canter for a few moments before he declared it faster than he’d ever need to go.” 

Thorin smirked at Bilbo's timid comment and then looked behind his sister to see his husband bouncing up to them at a gentle trot. Bilbo barely pulled on the reins at all as he neared the fence, but Myrtle had a soft mouth and slowed to a walk before stopping beside Dis and her pony. 

Bilbo sighed as if he’d been holding his breath executing even this simple trick. “Wouldn’t dare call myself a natural, but it’s a start.” 

Dis smiled as she pulled her pony back from the fence and turned it to leave them. “I think you’re doing marvelously for a novice, wouldn't you say so, Thorin?” 

Thorin didn’t fail to see her parting wink as she rode away, but Bilbo did not turn his head to watch her go. 

“I’m glad to see you made it back before sunset,” Bilbo said. He ducked his head shyly, “Though I confess I’m a bit embarrassed you had a chance to see me before I’ve really gotten the hang of things.” 

Thorin took in Bilbo’s flushed cheeks, his curls made wild by the wind, and felt a bit of the unpleasant weight in his stomach lifted. Let the men of Dale think themselves clever, it would please Thorin better if they never learned even the first thing about Bilbo. “Did you enjoy your lessons?” 

Bilbo didn’t go quite so far as to agree, but said, "Fili and Kili are quick to laugh and Dis a gentle teacher. And it was certainly nice to spend so much of the day outside. That first pony was a bit of a handful, I will admit, but Myrtle and I seem to understand each other. She doesn’t want to get anywhere too quickly and neither do I.” 

“You truly do like her?” 

Bilbo nodded.

“Then she is yours.” Bilbo seemed startled by the decision, but before he could voice any protest, Thorin continued, “I will have a saddle and bridle made, ones to call your own.” 

“Please, that’s not necessary,” Bilbo said, sputtering just a bit. “I wouldn’t want to part her from her owner.” 

“A very kindhearted thing to worry you," Thorin said, "but she belongs to me, to my family, as all the ponies here do. She’s mine to give, and yours to keep if you want her.” 

Bilbo looked down at Myrtle, the pony was scratching her neck happily against the fence post and Bilbo’s loose hands on her reins were letting her getting away with it. He laughed at her and patted her neck. “Well. If it really is all right,” he said, looking up at Thorin, “I’ll very gratefully accept.” 

“Then it is done.” Thorin pulled Borzol’s reins until he back obediently away from the fence. “There are things that I must see to, but I shall dine with you and the family tonight," he said as he turned toward the stables. He would need to see his father before dinner, speak of what they had learned and of the boldness of Dale’s soldiers with their insults.

Bilbo nodded and bid him goodbye before looking to Dis for some guidance on how to finish their lesson. 

Dinner was quite merry for half of the guests, Dis and her family laughed brightly and often, teasing Bilbo fondly for his small triumphs and occasional embarrassments during his riding lesson. Thorin and his father, however, ate with a greater measure of reserve, thoughts filled with a dozen possibilities, likelihoods, and potential outcomes, some of them quite a bit less than fair. 

Bilbo and Thorin retired after dinner, but not before Dis made Bilbo promise that he would ride again tomorrow to reinforce his lesson. Bilbo swore to her that he was more than willing, but upon Thorin closing the door, he groaned unhappily and dug his fists into the small of his own back. 

“Bother, but I ache. I hadn’t noticed while we sat and ate, but when I got up I suddenly felt as stiff as an old stone giant.” 

“That’ll be the riding,” Thorin told him, remembering he’d had a similar problem when he’d first been taught to ride. “It can take some getting used to.” 

Bilbo sighed, and stretched his back in a vain attempt to rid himself of the complaint, throwing his head back as he arched it, exposing his pale neck unknowingly to Thorin’s gaze. 

“A hot bath will help,” Thorin said, looking away before Bilbo straightened again. “You should take one before you sleep.”

Bilbo seemed doubtful at the late hour, for his mother had always told him never to go to bed with his hair wet. Thorin took off his greatcoat, and lit a candle by the desk. “You’ll regret it in the morning if you don’t.” 

Bilbo huffed unhappily at the thought of a hard morning. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll take one now.” 

Thorin nodded and sat down to letters left a little too long unanswered. Some time later Bilbo’s relieved sigh carried past the door to the private baths, and Thorin held his quill over his letter, distracted. When his wits returned to him a small blot of ink was slowly blooming on the paper. Shaking his head, he pulled a fresh parchment sheet down and began again. 

Bilbo emerged from the baths sometime later, wrapped in a warm robe, and looking a bit looser around the the neck and shoulders. Thorin was not quite finished with his letter and wrote on without speaking. When it was folded and sealed in red wax with his crest, Thorin turned back to the hobbit and found him sleeping soundly on the bed, looking as if he’d only meant to rest a moment, just as he had their wedding night. Thorin undressed, taking some care to be quiet, blew the candle out and went to join him. Bilbo stirred as Thorin turned down the blanket, hooking an arm under Bilbo’s knees to first lift and then settle them under the covers. 

“Oh,” Bilbo said, blinking his eyes open. “I’m sorry, I didn't mean to-” 

He stopped speaking when Thorin lay the blanket over him. “Sleep,” he told the hobbit. 

Bilbo smiled softly, closed his eyes and was asleep again when Thorin lay beside him. Bilbo did not turn over to settle against him and neither did Thorin yet feel bold enough to reach for him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! 
> 
> So wow. 
> 
> It's been almost 2 years to the day since I last wrote for this story and this marks basically the first time ever in my fannish career that I came back to finish something, but I guess that's the power of the SOUL CRUSHING SADNESS that is the ending to Battle of the Five Armies, huh? If you still have any interest in this story, well, I hugely appreciate it. I've gotten my muse back and I want to very sincerely try to complete this work. I'm too in love with these little assholes to not give it my best. Thanks to my lovely friends for their encouragement and to Merrin for beta!
> 
> Re: the actual content of this chapter: Hey guys, I hope you like set up! (sigh) This would have been an all right part to follow up with back two years ago. But now I gotta think it's a little anticlimactic. I promise there'll be more pizzazz to future chapters.

Hobbits, by and large, were creatures of habit. From time to time they might do something not entirely expected - throw a party for no reason, for example, or surprise a relation by arriving at their front door hoping to be overnight guests, or even agree to marry a dwarven prince sight unseen - but when left to their own devices they will tend almost without fail toward a routine. So it came at no surprise at all to himself that it took Bilbo no longer than a week to establish a new schedule that he followed almost without fail. 

Each morning Bilbo did his best to wake when Thorin did, allowing them the opportunity to speak at least briefly before the day and Thorin’s tasks began. Thorin sometimes joined his family and Bilbo for breakfast and sometimes did not. After he ate Bilbo took his morning constitutional, first retreading a path he’d learned the previous day to help memorize it, and then setting out to learn a new one. Next Bilbo would have a restorative nibble at elevensies, and then read for a while. Lunch was usually delivered to his room so he could enjoy another chapter. 

After lunch was tidied away by a voluminous but largely silent cook’s assistant named Bombur, Bilbo went for a ride with Dis and her sons. The sunshine and fresh air never failed to leave him in raised spirits and Myrtle was a funny, fussy creature that always made him laugh at least once. He felt a kinship with her seeing as how she was not usually inclined to go anywhere quickly and was very inclined to interrupt a lesson by attempting to graze. He was often reluctant in the face of Dis’s insistence to learn how to correct these bad habits, but followed her advice as best he could. 

After riding, Bilbo refreshed himself from the lesson and had afternoon tea, often with Dis. He asked her frequently about dwarven life and customs, but out of deference to Thorin’s enormous desire for privacy, he rarely asked for insight into his husband. 

To finish the afternoon Bilbo wrote letters back to the Shire. So far they came less frequently than he sent them but still he felt it was important to send good news to counteract the inevitable rumors that must have started the moment he left. Anyone who left was consigned without fail to misery and ruin by the Shire gossip mill, regardless of how well they may have actually gotten on. The maiden aunts and old men of the Shire were quite convinced that to allow for any other possibility would mean that their nieces and nephews and other close relations might do the unthinkable and leave as well. In truth, they needn’t have worried, several generations would likely pass before there were many hobbits born with a wanderlust that extended beyond the nearby village of Bree.

After the letters were proofed and posted Bilbo usually spent half of an hour dozing in a soft chair. He called this “further reading” to anyone who asked after his whereabouts. Then he would dress for dinner, which sometimes included Thorin and sometimes did not. When he retired to his rooms for the night Bilbo would find a cup of chamomile tea waiting for him. He enjoyed the tea in his dressing gown which would sometimes find its way to the floor and sometimes did not. 

Bilbo did not yet know what prompted Thorin to turn away from his own letters well before they were finished, or to set aside his greaves and gloves immediately upon closing the door to their room so that he could pull Bilbo near. He did know, thankfully, that if he were to take Thorin’s hand, the somber prince would come with him easily. Whatever games of seduction other lovers played did not seem all that necessary between them. 

All in all, though, it was an agreeable routine. One with ample padding for eventual royal duties in excess of Bilbo’s current charges of: exist for the betterment of trade relations; wear Thorin’s ring at all times when outside of their rooms; and occasionally attract or seek Thorin’s attention. As of yet, nothing more strenuous had been asked of him, but Bilbo would be ready once it was. 

Bilbo woke one morning to start the pattern anew with his forehead pressed between Thorin’s shoulderblades. 

Which, if he was being honest, was not quite to the routine he had established as it was something he had never done before. Thorin did not seem bothered by this development though. Not even when Bilbo, still in his early morning stupor, rubbed his cheek against the warmth of Thorin’s shoulder before suddenly stopping as he became much more awake and aware. Thorin kindly did not turn over for a moment while Bilbo waited for his blush to fade. 

Bilbo would have liked to be braver, but there was something about mornings that always made him less bold when it came to his husband. Even on mornings such as this where it was necessary to retrieve his dressing gown from where it lay on the floor. 

“More scouting and riding on your agenda today?” Bilbo asked, making slightly strained attempt at small talk as he slipped his arms into his robe. 

“Not today,” Thorin said, also rising from the bed. He did not elaborate as he dressed, and on another morning Bilbo might have pressed him, but today he was content to comb his hair in silence. 

Nothing more was said until Thorin’s largely unnecessary question of, “Shall we go to breakfast?” 

Because of course they shall, Bilbo’s stomach was already growling for toast and tea and he’d never made the habit of ignoring his stomach.

Though Bilbo himself was quite enjoying his meal, he did not miss that as the morning progressed Thorin seemed to get into a more and more unpleasant mood. In between buttering his bread and cracking his soft-boiled egg that as the morning Biblo noticed Thorin and his father shared quiet words that put quite a sour look on Thorin’s face. Midway through Bilbo’s second cup of tea (and second helping of bacon and herb scones) a dwarf came into the hall and bowed. 

“Are they here?” Thrain asked and Bilbo looked up from his plate, curious.

The dwarf nodded. “They have been escorted to rooms to await your convenience.” 

Thrain waved his hand in vague approval. “Send them my greetings. And tea, I suppose.” 

The dwarf bowed low again, and left. Bilbo turned toward Thorin to ask after these unnamed guests, but the expression on his husband’s face made him think the better of it. He set his mouth to finishing breakfast instead of asking questions.

He rather expected Thorin to whisk himself away after the meal was finished, but instead he walked Bilbo back to their rooms. Bilbo tried to make the walk a little more pleasant by telling Thorin of Myrtle and her misbehavior, but Thorin either would not devote enough of his attention to find things in the story to laugh at or simply had no laughter in him. 

Bilbo was very much the sort of fellow to try and cheer someone out of a bad mood, but he was not such an understanding fellow that he didn’t get put out when his attempt went wrong. So when he asked Thorin, “what is it that has put you in such a gloom today?” it was without much gentleness. 

Thorin blinked, startled by the question, then sighed. He did not go so far as to apologize, but he did bow his head to Bilbo in something like regret for having been so obvious about his mood. “I have unpleasant duties expected of me today.” 

“I see,” Bilbo said, magnanimously deciding to forgive Thorin his bad humor, all things considered. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

Thorin shook his head, “No. The men of Dale have come to entreat us for favors.”

“Come here to Erebor?”

“Yes,” Thorin said. 

Bilbo waited for Thorin to realize what he had said. “So you will have a council with them and nothing more?” 

“Yes, they will want to talk-” It would figure that Thorin would twist his mouth unhappily around the word ‘talk’ “-of water, and of their right to patrol the roads, I think.” 

They were quite near their room now, but Bilbo stopped on the path. Thorin took a step before he realized, and turned around to face him, head tilted slightly in confusion. 

“Is dwarven diplomacy quite unlike other kinds?” Bilbo asked. 

Thorin’s brow furrowed.

“In the Shire we only talk through our disputes, but perhaps today’s council will require riding skills and or a gift with weaponry?” 

Thorin clearly thought Bilbo’s questions very odd, but still he responded, “No.” 

“So when you assured me that you would seek my help and counsel when you may this was a falsehood?” 

Thorin at last seemed to realize he had made a mistake, but whether or not Bilbo would forgive him would depend on just what he considered that mistake to be. If Thorin was merely contrite that he let slip that his task today involved talking and not scouting, well. 

Thorin cleared his throat, and Bilbo waited. “It was not a falsehood, but-” 

And there it was. 

Bilbo, rather boldly considering how shy he’d been this morning, cut Thorin off. “If I had not been reading about the history of your family, I might have told myself dwarven marriages are simply different than hobbit ones, but I know now that there were many marriages where dwarves burdens were shared as we hobbits do.” Thorin tried to speak, but Bilbo continued. 

“If it’s that you worry about my statecraft, I understand it, but I would never speak out of turn. Hobbits may not have much experience in matters of kingdoms, but we talk, argue, and debate _at length_ , I can assure you. I have waited patiently for some greater point to my being here, and I would ask that you allow me the chance to at least try.”

Bilbo took a breath and realized all that he had just deposited at Thorin’s feet. Still there was nothing to do now but tip his chin up and leave it there for Thorin to deal with.

“I am grateful for your offer of help,” Thorin said, though he did not particularly sound grateful. “But there are some matters in which-” Bilbo raised his eyebrows and Thorin exhaled a tense breath. “It is not you that concerns me,” Thorin said, frustrated. “I do not trust the men of Dale to hold their tongues around you.” 

Bilbo frowned, “What do you mean?” 

Thorin did not seem to want to tell him, and so Bilbo thought about it longer. “You think that the men of Dale will find reason to say unkind things about me?” 

Thorin nodded reluctantly. 

Bilbo’s cheeks flushed hotly. “You truly think a diplomatic envoy coming to ask your father’s favor would find me so ridiculous that they would be openly impolite to me?” 

Thorin looked more than a little taken aback by Bilbo’s summary. “No,” he said, and Bilbo challenged him with a look, “I do _not_. My fear is they will mistake you for the only place that they may deposit their ire without suffering any consequence.”

“Yes and I’m sure it would be embarrassing for you,” Bilbo said. “A great loss of face.” 

Thorin looked at him oddly, “It would be infuriating. It is already hard to give them a sincere ear and if they made comment, I would lose my temper.”

Bilbo sighed, all his indignation now revealed to be very useless. When he spoke to Thorin it was far more gently than before. “Then I can be quite helpful indeed. If you think that in all my time in the Shire I was never the subject of gossip or rude comments then I must tell you about my cousin’s wife, Lobelia, sometime. Mastering the art of sitting across from that woman at tea with an impassive face has no doubt prepared me for anything the men of Dale could work up the courage to say about me in front of you. So, seeing as there’s no good reason for me not to,” Bilbo said, brightly, “I’ll come.” 

Thorin did not go so far as to smile, but he did not choose to argue the matter either, and for that Bilbo was grateful.

“When is the meeting? Do you think there is time for me to go and smarten up a bit?”

Thorin nodded, “I must go and speak to my father, but I will send someone to guide you to the council room.” 

“Thank you,” Bilbo said, passing Thorin in order to return to their room. 

“Bilbo,” Thorin called. When Bilbo turned he said, more softly, “If you could please wear your crown for the occasion.” 

Bilbo lifted a his hand to head which was, as usual, crownless. “Yes. Yes, of course.” 

Thorin nodded again, bid him good morning, and left.

 

After the day they were married Bilbo’s crown had gone into a ornately carved box and was, Bilbo now realized, basically forgotten. The only crown hobbits had ever worn were crowns of flowers for feasts; daisies and peonies and forget-me-nots nestled in curls made wild with dance. Bilbo had never danced much, but he would wear a crown of orange primula to the Mayfest and red and yellow oak leaves to the Harvest feast as his mother had taught him to make as a child. He’d never thought about it, but if he’d ever for a moment felt silly he would have been comforted by the fact that every hobbit in the Shire was wearing their own crowns.

It felt much different to take up a crown of braided gold alone in a room carved from dark stone and lit with torches and place it upon his head. What Bilbo saw in his looking glass was a plain hobbit putting on airs. It was not that the crown looked ridiculous, the craftsmanship was far too fine to be anything but pleasing. But a crown paired with a waistcoat and breeches, no matter how well tailored, did not have the same impact as Thorin with his broad belt, iron boots, and floor sweeping coat.

There was little to be done about it right now except to hold his shoulders straight, and do his best to hide his discomfort. Bilbo also pulled his finest coat from the wardrobe, made of dark blue velvet with bronze buttons and yellow flowers embroidered on the pocket flap. It was the only thing he had suitable for anything more formal than a dinner, and it might fool a visiting king for half a minute about Bilbo’s importance.

There was a knock at the door just as Bilbo was folding his handkerchief for his waistcoat pocket. Bilbo found on the other side of it a dwarf not much taller than him, with a fine white beard and a very courtly manner, at least if the way he bowed was any indication.

“Balin,” said the dwarf, “At your service.”

Bilbo bowed shallowly, mindful of his crown, “Pleased to meet you.” He tucked his handkerchief away and tugged the door closed.

The dwarf motioned to the path and asked, “Shall we?” and Bilbo followed.

“Will you be attending the council as well?” Bilbo asked, hopeful he would be able to ask for some advice before it was too late.

“Aye,” Balin answered. “It is among my duties as head adviser to the throne.”

“Oh!" Bilbo said, pleased. "So then you will know very well how Thorin and his father conduct their business.”

“Aye,” Balin repeated, this time with a tone that spoke of some misgivings.

Bilbo lifted his brow hopefully and Balin sighed, “If I were to be honest, I might say that Thorin and the King have a stubborn streak a mile wide, and a depth of pride a mile deep, and that this did not make them famous for being adept diplomats. But-” Balin said, a twinkle in his eye, “that would only be if I were being honest.”

Bilbo smiled, the answer being hardly a surprise. “And the men of Dale?”

Balin’s amusement evaporated at the mention of the Dale. “There were times not so long ago that I would have said they were great friends to the dwarves of Erebor but,” and here he shrugged helplessly, “those were in better days.”

“Isn’t there anything that can be done?”

Balin cleared his throat uncomfortably at this question. Instead of answering, he gestured to an intersection in their path. Bilbo took the turn indicated but did not stop looking at Balin, waiting for an answer.

“It’s very difficult to say what might have happened,” Balin told him finally, “if we had not found that the Hobbits of the Shire were agreeable to trade.”

“Ah,” Bilbo realized immediately what Balin was implying and pondered this as they walked. A pair of great doors were at the end of the path, and Bilbo suspected this would be where the dwarves would make their council. As they neared he stopped, and said, “Balin, is it possible then that my presence would be salt in the wound to the men of Dale?”

Balin cheek twitched, “Yes, but what may be salt to one party could be poultice to another. If I were to ask anything of the Prince’s consort - and I would most certainly not - I would ask him to leave the men of Dale to me and to instead do his best to stay Thorin’s temper.”

Bilbo felt his brow lift quite high. “Temper? What on earth am I supposed to do about Thorin’s temper?” he tried to ask, but Balin was already leading them through the doors. Bilbo was forced to harrumph loudly and quite awkwardly in the middle of Thorin’s name because his husband was of course already waiting inside.

Balin led Bilbo to a long table of perfectly polished stone, inlaid quite beautifully with a gold crest of Durin’s house. Thorin, his father, Dis, and Fili were arranged on one side and Bilbo was seated at Thorin’s right, while Balin went to sit at King Thrain’s right hand. Bilbo smiled nervously at Thorin as he settled himself, and watched as Thorin’s eyes drifted from his face and up to the crown sitting upon his head. Reflexively Bilbo’s hand lifted to see if it had somehow fallen askew, but from what he could tell it was sitting just as it should. Thorin smiled at him, and Bilbo wondered if he’d already accomplished his given objective of keeping Thorin calm. 

The council now assembled, the men of Dale were announced and Thorin’s smile disappeared. Bilbo watched with some fascination as the blue skies one could imagine in Thorin’s eyes turned the darker shade of far off storm clouds. Bilbo followed Thorin’s thunderous gaze and found four men, tall as they naturally always appear to hobbits, with limbs that seem unnecessarily long and faces that seem unnecessarily somber. 

The man with a dark gray mane, combed short beard, and regal bearing was unsurprisingly introduced as their King, King Bern. Next was his son and their Prince, Bard, who stood taller than his father, with temples just lightly touched with grey. The older of their two companions was introduced as their royal adviser, and the younger as the captain of the guard.

Everyone in the room was ill at ease, or so it appeared to Bilbo, but none more so than Thorin and the captain. Thorin practically bristled at the mention of the man’s name and title. As for the man, he shifted in his chair, visibly uncomfortable, when Bilbo was introduced. Bilbo started to suspect that things had already gotten off to a bit of a bad start before one word was even said.

Then King Thrain stood and “start,” Bilbo would come to realize, was perhaps not the correct word. For when King Thrain spoke it was not to set the agenda, but to bid the men of Dale welcome to the great Kingdom of Erebor, which was first claimed in the Second Age, and brought to fruition by his ancestor Thrain I and, rather unfortunately, so on and so on. It was with some relief that Bilbo saw King Thrain (King Thrain II, he now knew) sit down. This was followed by dismay when King Bern of Dale stood and delivered his own speech, detailing his own city’s history and his own family’s proper passing of power through legitimate generations.

Bilbo, for all his eagerness to participate this morning, spent most of this time longing for tea.

By the time it came to discuss the matter that had brought them together Bilbo had great difficulty in renewing his focus, but did his best. King Bern’s adviser talked first about the hardships of the drought, sidestepping carefully around the added troubles of the loss of trade with Erebor. The lake had receded from the shore, and the river, which they called the Celduin, was shallower, slower, and often stagnant. Fresh, clean water was becoming more difficult, though thankfully not necessarily impossible, to come by. 

The men of Dale, the adviser described, were grateful to have found good trade partners in the elves of Mirkwood, however. (Bilbo did not fail to note an air of tension came into the room when the elves were discussed.) The river through Mirkwood no longer being a sound way to send goods however, they were taking more and more of their goods to the elven kingdom by road. 

In light of all this, the adviser said, wetting his lips, it was necessary that they come to ask for three things. First, that the gates and dams slowing the flow of the river at the gates of Erebor and at Raven Hill be lowered to allow more water to pass through to fill the river and increase its floor. Second, that they be given leave to patrol the roads their traders used freely and without monitoring or hostility from the dwarves. And finally that they be given some alleviation of a debt they were repaying to Erebor. Bilbo thought it might have been in reference to a sum of gold loaned to build a ship which he was quite sure the men of Dale had little use for now, but his mind had wandered at this stage of the discussion.

The adviser then sat and awaited Thrain’s response. 

Thrain allowed for quite a dramatic pause before clearing his throat and saying, “It appears to me that the men of Dale already have what they are asking. There is water although because of your position you must travel for it. You already patrol the roads, whether we monitor you or not. And you may decide not to pay the debt to Erebor and accrue the interest such as was decided when we made the loan of that very dear sum of gold.”

Things got rather a bit more tense after that.

True to his word Bilbo did not speak out of turn, but the longer the dwarves and men argued the more Bilbo started to wonder if they were all that different than the farmers of the Shire arguing about whose goat got into what field. Bilbo could imagine them all in straw hats clutching pitchforks and saying that this is the last time they’ll stand by and see their crops disrespected. 

The calmest members of this discussion were most definitely Prince Bard and Balin. Or perhaps Fili since it did not appear that the lad was listening at all. Bard and Balin both made the most reasonable cases for their side and listened when the other spoke. 

Mothers were loathe to have their children walk so far for fresh water and farmers needed to spend less time looking for water and more time tending to crops that were in danger of faltering.

The dams and gates were present to provide the dwarves with water mill power for their crafts. 

The soldiers of Dale had been requested by the merchants who were unused to long travel on the open road. 

The roads were equally important to the dwarves who needed there to be no interference with their trade with the Shire. (Bilbo shifted in his seat a bit uncomfortably here, but no one looked at him.)

Everything was coming at a dear price to Dale and this made the paying of their debt to Erebor a greater burden but they would grant all assurances necessary that it would be paid. 

Dwarves were as a rule not fond of letting go of gold, and the loan was made as a gesture of friendship to Dale with the expectation of prompt repayment as scheduled. 

The loudest and most stubborn was Thorin, who bristled at everything. Was he being called a spy? What was it the men of Dale were getting up to that they wanted no one to see? What alliances were forming between them and the elves of Mirkwood? At each allegation the council became more heated and drifted further from any kind of solution. Bilbo knew he was failing at keeping Thorin’s temper in check but for all he could manage it when they were alone there was little he could do to attract Thorin’s attention now. 

He did everything he could to remain silent right until Thorin started a sentence which would most definitely switch his veiled threats to incredibly explicit ones. 

“I wonder, my lords and emissaries,” Bilbo interjected, heart beating so anxiously against his chest he felt it would leap out. 

The Kings Thrain and Bern looked at him as if he’d appeared from nowhere and Thorin seemed no less startled. 

Bilbo cleared his throat awkwardly and firmed up his resolve. “I wonder if we might consider a short break to um- to restore our dispositions and good cheer with...“ Bilbo fumbled about for anything that would take fifteen minutes, and finally lighted upon “tea?”

Bern looked at Thrain as if to confirm that a request to break the council for tea had actually just been made, and Bilbo felt a fool until Balin suddenly spoke. “Yes, Prince consort, I believe you’ve had a very fine idea. It seems we all need a moment to refresh ourselves.” 

The king took in a breath but Balin fixed his king with a meaningful look. Balin’s insight must be very valued indeed for Thrain eventually sat back and waved his hand to one of the sentries at the door. “Take our guests to a room where they may enjoy, as my adviser said, a moment to refresh themselves.” 

The men of Dale stood, all looking at each other with open confusion, and Bilbo remained very still, the tips of his ears red, until they had departed. As the doors closed behind them he blew out the breath he’d been holding, and slumped back into his chair. For a brief moment he felt some relief he’d accomplished at least the first part of his goal before he realized that the members of the royal family were looking at him with open interest and not a lot of confidence.

Bilbo sat up straight again and spoke to Thrain, “I will beg your pardon for speaking out of turn.” 

Thrain did not seem inclined to give much pardon. “You may tell the sentry how you take your tea.” 

“Tea?” Bilbo asked. “No, I don’t want any tea. I only wanted the chance to speak frankly.” 

Thrain glanced at Thorin but his son’s only response was to pretend he didn’t notice his father’s gaze. Instead Thorin kept his eyes fixed on Bilbo, waiting for the meaning of this irregular request to be made clear. 

Finally, the king grew tired of waiting. “Well then do so, Master Hobbit.” 

“Oh. Yes, of course,” Bilbo answered immediately. “Is there truly any a reason we can’t give them access to more water? It’s only that it seems you have plenty.” 

Thrain glanced to Balin who shook his head. “No, there is no need for us to hoard water. We have many springs that run through the mountain. I hope you were paying enough attention, however, to know that they have not come asking only for water.”

“I have,” Bilbo promised. “I assure you I have, and that is how I know that all that they truly want is the water.”

Thrain did not seem much convinced. “Is that so, Master Hobbit? Then they should have come asking only for water.” 

“But they’re just trying to negotiate,” Bilbo pressed on, and Thrain did not appear to think this very polite. “They mentioned those other demands just to give you something to deny them so that they may get what they need. I know that forthrightness is your way, but it’s very common in the Shire, I’ve handled it a hundred times.” 

Bilbo did not say that he knew of this tactic because the Tooks in his family were liable to ask for seven days to visit when they really only wanted four, or that Hamfast Gamgee had asked Bilbo’s neighbors for a four foot fence when he knew three foot one would do to keep that goat out of his tomatoes. 

Bilbo looked from one face writ with misgivings to the next. When he looked at Balin the old dwarf sighed. “I believe the hobbit may very well be right, my king. Leaving with the access to water they ask for will be a kindness and will give them more cause to thank us than to resent us for what we did not provide.” 

Thrain seemed to find Balin’s agreement with the hobbit exhausting and motioned to the sentry. “Tea,” he ordered. He sat back in his chair and finally caught Thorin’s eye. “Despite our Prince consort rescinding his original request, it will in fact be necessary.” 

The sentry left with quick steps that echoed in the large room and the king took a moment to think. 

“How greatly do you think their animosity will grow if we deny them?” he asked Balin.

“It’s difficult to say,” Balin said. He was only too shrewd adviser, Bilbo realized, to say directly. “But if the situation with the roads through Mirkwood were to become more dire…”

By trailing off he let the king come to his own conclusion. Cheap kindness could head off expensive conflict. “Very well,” Thrain said. “We will give them-” 

But he was caught off by a deep and firm, “No.” 

Thrain raised his eyebrows at his son. “No,” Thorin said again, “I’m afraid I don’t agree. Let their thirst teach them a lesson. They would set their patrols to fetching water if they needed it so badly.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo said, dismayed. 

“Father,” Dis said in a tone of deliberate cheer. “Will you come and speak with me a moment?” 

Thrain threw his hands up in rather the same way Bilbo’s father would when his Great Aunt Maris asked for some new condiment despite Bungo having just sat down from the second time he’d gotten up to retrieve something for her. “It will be only be a moment,” Dis said, hopefully.

Thrain conceded to stand and let his daughter lead the way. Fili, having spent most of the reprieve from pretending to be interested in the council ignoring them and cleaning his nails with a knife, was surprised to find his collar sharply pulled up as Dis led her father and her son to the corner. 

When they were more or less alone, Bilbo turned to his husband. “Thorin, if there is reason Erebor cannot spare the water, it should be shared. And if there is no reason you can’t spare the water and if _not_ giving them water would mean that you may have an even bigger problem with the roads and patrols later on then I am at a loss as to why you would ever argue to deny them it.” 

“If they had come to ask sincerely, of course, I would not deny them,” and Bilbo was a bit glad to know that at least in some situations Thorin would not ignore the plight of mothers and simple folk. “But,” Thorin continued, “they have not come sincerely, I know this.” 

“Know it how?” Bilbo asked. The tea had arrived, and was taken to the end of the table where Thrain stood looking puzzled as his daughter spoke to him. 

“Their captain of the guard is not so well spoken as his masters. He made his opinions plain when we met on the road.” 

“His opinions?” Bilbo asked, looking at Balin could not apparently offer much insight. “What opinions?” 

Thorin, unsurprisingly, seemed reluctant to talk about what had transpired between himself and the captain of the guard, but Bilbo was undeterred. “You’re saying he insulted you?” He frowned, this would be a problem if he had learned anything during in his time here about dwarves and their pride. 

“He insulted our honorable marriage,” Thorin said, and Bilbo forced himself not react so that Thorin would could continue. “Making light of spying upon you as you came to Erebor, of having seen you before even I saw you.” 

“Spying on me?” Bilbo shook his head. “Thorin, really, I was on an open road and not exactly coming in secret. Did he do really nothing worse than that?” 

Rather than answer, Thorin dropped Bilbo’s gaze. 

“Ah,” Bilbo said, as the tumblers all fell into place and the lock turned. “He said something unkind about me. That’s what worried you so much this morning, isn’t it? That he would try it again, this time in front of me?” 

“We are lucky he has good enough manners when he is a guest seeking a handout.”

“Very lucky indeed,” Bilbo was glad he was not present at a council where one party launched themselves across the table at another party. “But then it’s all right, or can be,” Bilbo said. “I’ve already told you that anything he said would hardly be the first unkind thing that’s ever been said about me, and probably not even the worst considering Lobelia’s opinions of me.” He spread his hands. “I take no offense.” 

“Offense was taken,” Thorin insisted.

Bilbo smiled at him, and it thankfully had the effect of taking some of gale force winds out of Thorin’s sails. “I appreciate that you were angry on my behalf, but from what you have told me the insult is purely mine to take or to not take, and I am telling you, Thorin, that I take none.” 

Here Bilbo became bold and reached across to tug upon the lapel of Thorin’s coat as his mother had always done to his father whenever she wanted a holiday. “Give them the water, Thorin. If that is truly their only crime against Erebor, they have been absolved.” 

Thorin looked down at Bilbo, a great deal of his anger forgotten, but not all. “You proving how gravely they underestimated you makes me all the more eager to punish them for having done so.”

Bilbo sighed, at a loss, but thankfully Balin cut in. 

“It occurs to me,” Balin said in a careful, thoughtful tone, “that I can think of nothing that would shame the captain of the guard more than to have the object of his derision be the one to show him the greatest amount of mercy.”

Bilbo turned his face from Balin to Thorin, and watched happily as the scales in Thorin’s mind tipped at last to his favor. 

“Balin,” Thorin said, sounding very regal and a lot less petulant, “tell the king that we are well refreshed.” 

Balin looked immensely pleased to be able to do so. 

 

The need for further talks evaporated once Thrain agreed to their requests that the dams and gates be lowered to allow more water to flow to the river beside Dale. The men departed soon after and Thrain and his family quickly found other places they wished to be. Thrain left with Balin to discuss some matter of state. Dis received a message that made her smile and take her leave eagerly. Fili had been out the door the moment the men of Dale left to find out the full details of whatever fun his brother had been able to have while he was trapped in council.

Bilbo stood and stretched, burying his fists into the small of his back for a brief, ungraceful moment. He nearly made a comment about finding out where the tea had run off to, but he was startled instead by Thorin’s arm slipping around his back and leading him from the room. 

Thorin took him through the passages between the council room and their bedroom swiftly enough the Bilbo was almost dizzy by the time they arrived. Thorin did him the favor of leading him directly to the bed. 

“What am I to do with you?” he asked, sitting on the edge of their bed and pulling Bilbo into his lap. 

“You could allow me to help you as I hope I did today?” Bilbo answered, a flush creeping up into his cheeks as perched high upon Thorin’s thighs. They were strong and very thick, and Bilbo was fast becoming accustomed to feeling of his own stretching wide open to accommodate them. 

As he leaned down to kiss Thorin, Bilbo lifted his hand to remove his crown but it was intercepted by Thorin’s and redirected to rest on the back of Thorin’s shoulder. Bilbo could speak no protest before his mouth was covered in a rough, deep kiss. Bilbo rather forgot the crown in favor of winding his hands instead in Thorin’s abundant hair.

Thorin broke away to tuck his nose into the hollow of Bilbo’s throat and pluck at his waistcoat buttons. “Do you always apply yourself to tasks with such determination?” 

Bilbo hummed and wiggled his shoulders to work off his jacket. “I don’t know that there were ever any tasks for me that called for such determination before I came here. Shopping in the market or choosing crops to plant doesn’t really require much of a firm resolve.” 

His jacket landed on the floor and was followed almost immediately by his waistcoat. Thorin looked Bilbo in the eye as he slid his thumbs under Bilbo’s braces and guided them down off his shoulders. 

Flushing again, Bilbo reached up again to remove his crown and Thorin again caught his hand before he could do so. “Thorin, honestly.” What were they starting if not something that would require him to take it off and put it somewhere safe?

“I’m sorry if it gives me pleasure to see you in my handiwork,” Thorin said, working the top button of Bilbo’s shirt free. “But it does, very much.”

“Your-” Bilbo looked up stupidly, no more able to see the crown on his head than he could see his own eyebrows. “You made it?”

Thorin nodded, pulling more buttons open, “And your ring. Who else would have the right to make your gifts?” 

“I wish you’d said,” Bilbo chided, pushing Thorin’s jacket off his shoulders. “I would have told you how very splendid they are. Now I’ll seem insincere.” 

Thorin freed his arms from his jacket and before he could reach up finish to Bilbo’s buttons, Bilbo put his hands between them to loosen Thorin’s belt. “Wear them for me now and all is forgiven,” Thorin told him, voice a bit rough as he watched Bilbo pull the leather loose. 

Bilbo was a very simple, gentlehobbit but he would be a liar if he said he didn’t have a certain rush of heat at the thought of being bedded in a crown. Bilbo sounded breathless to his own ears as he spread Thorin’s tunic open. “I never thought of a prince smithing.” 

“To work is dwarvenkind’s’ whole purpose. Nothing to do with our craft is below any member of Mahal’s people. If you wanted,” Thorin said leaning into Bilbo’s throat, “I could cover you head to toe in such gifts.” His teeth closed gently at the juncture of Bilbo’s neck and collarbone, but he pulled away when Bilbo gasped. 

In Bilbo’s current state the idea of being covered by metal, even precious ones, did not sound at all appealing. “I think even you must admit that sounds a bit cumbersome.” He put the tips of his fingers on Thorin’s chest and pushed until dwarf yielded and leaned back, resting his weight on arm planted behind him in the bed. “I prefer you keep to your current uses of your free time, if that’s quite all right.”

Thorin looked at Bilbo, from his crown to open shirt. “If you’ve proven one thing,” he said, grabbing a handful of Bilbo’s shirt and pulling until it came free from his trousers, “it’s that I can be persuaded.”

Bilbo rather thought that was a generous interpretation, but he was too pleased at the feeling of Thorin’s warm hand sliding up his back to bother pointing that out.


End file.
